


concert pitch

by renvember



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: (you lose your inventory when you die), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst, Enderman Hybrid Ranboo (Video Blogging RPF), Gen, Panic Attacks, Ranboo-centric (Video Blogging RPF), Video Game Mechanics, thanks karl
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-15 18:02:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28692915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renvember/pseuds/renvember
Summary: Ranboo looks into those eyes and the blistering reality catches up to him. They look soyoung. He wants to say something, he means to say something, but his voice catches and another well of tears overcomes him.He’s not back. He’s somewhere far worse. And he can only think of one explanation: that, maybe, he’d managed to slip back through time or into some alternate universe.It isn’t the country as he knows it because itisn’t, not yet. It is still yet to be forged from the ground up, and he is being forced to witness it.(Is this Dream’s last trick? His last plot to make Ranboo feel insane?the ugly part of his brain questions. But it isn’t, it can’t be.Dream’s words ring in the back of his mind.“I’m not even real.”)(Something forgotten too often is that before the melody, before the symphony, the orchestra has to tune.)
Relationships: Ranboo & Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Ranboo & Toby Smith | Tubbo, Ranboo & Wilbur Soot
Comments: 161
Kudos: 1001





	1. concert pitch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [communisteevee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/communisteevee/gifts).



> dedicated to evie because this was originally going to be a birthday gift but. mcyt lore changes so quickly i needed to capitalize on the situation while i could and before mr soot takes a glock to all the current lore for his next geopolitical scheme
> 
> ranboo needs more ranboo centric fics and ive always believed in being the change you want to see in the world. so! short little drabble. i fucking LOVE time travel fix-its and i think its infinitely sexier with ranboo bc he has memory issues? so his perception of what needs to be changed would shift so often. man needs his journal. someone get this bitch a journal.

The air in the panic room is too thick, too humid, with the water nearby. Ranboo can’t– he can’t _breathe_. He can feel his hearts thumping against his ribs, his lungs heaving but not getting enough air. He thought the small space would comfort him, he thought– he doesn't know what he thought.

He can imagine the earth shaking from explosions already.

He can’t push away the truth. This is it. For L'Manburg and the people he cares about. 

He thumbs the worn leather of his first journal and curls up in the corner of his obsidian box. He doesn’t move until long after the sun sets, only when the unbearable light of morning falls across the black stone floor. 

He’s too dizzy to stand up straight, so he leans against the wall as he collects himself. The blood drains from his head slowly, but soon enough he’s able to blink up through the stream of water separating the panic room from the rest of the world.

Right. Yeah. L’Manburg’s Armageddon.

He screws his eyes shut and breathes, as measured as he can in the circumstances. He turns to lay his head flat on the wall and allows the sensation of the cool stone to ground him in the present again. 

Ranboo needs to get his pets and lead them away from the city. They don’t– they don’t deserve any of this. This was their– _his_ mistake. They won’t pay the price. 

The water stings as he swims his way up from shore, not even the best waterproofing available on his armor doing much to fight it. It’s fine. It’s deserved. The walk back from the panic room is almost fluid, languid and slow and intangible. 

He doesn’t even notice he’s home until his boots catch on the uneven spruce planking laid over the holes Techno’s Wither left on the platform. He doesn’t go careening over the edge, but it’s close. Especially after he realizes the water below is _gone_. 

He scrambles backward, falling back on the familiar bed of mushroom underneath the entrance to his house. Then he looks _up_. There’s a black obsidian frame looming over them now, no stairway or any tether keeping it airborne.

Dream’s work, evidently.

(Ranboo wonders how it will look when stacks upon stacks of explosives are raining down from above.)

He shoves his door open with maybe too much force. Enderchest startles backward, but as soon as she recognizes him, she sidles up to his side, meowing. He reaches down and lifts her to his chest to run his hands across her coat. She purrs, leaning into his touch and brushing her face against his own. 

Her rumbling presence calms him enough. He takes her out carefully, angling his heel around the door to close it behind him, and heads back to the panic room. 

He lingers just above it, stroking her soft coat and watching the water lap at the sandy shore.

The sun’s almost set again. When did that happen?

He doubts Enderchest would enjoy swimming down to the box itself–not to mention she could freak out and drown herself–so he digs out a small enclosure just above to leave her at. She mewls at him but acquiesces to the lead he fastens around her neck. That’ll do. This is temporary, anyway. He’ll come back for her, after all this is done.

He cuts his way through any hostile mobs on his way back to L’Manburg. The city is coming to life now, its inhabitants and allies rising from the depths. Tommy and Tubbo are talking, finally. The other members of the Cabinet are gathering, too. He avoids them, all of them, best he can, dipping between the shadows and ducking behind walls to stay out of sight. The heavy sound of his front door closing behind him is deafening. 

He watches Enderpearl slip behind another chest as he walks in. Jeffrey looks up from his perch on the window, tail swinging idly he blinks slowly at him.

He looks down at Jeffrey’s little brown face and the dam breaks again. He has to wipe back the tears scalding his cheeks, has to lean down and blindly grab for a towel to smother the burning feeling.

. . .

The exposed underbelly of L'Manburg is dark and looming, a familiar void that calls to him in its intimate way. The dark plumes of Techno’s fireworks blaze against the night, the Withers set the ground alight with the force of their explosive power, the crowd splits and surges in combat.

Then the TNT starts falling.

And all Ranboo can do is watch.

Tensions flare up, those fighting for L’Manburg and their enemies shouting and yelling as the Withers overwhelm them. He stays ducked under the alcoves of buildings, trying to keep safe from the rain and the explosions. Amidst the shouting, he’s helpless but to scribble in his book to quell his own booming thoughts throughout the noise, line of thought directly to pen as he bleeds out his heart onto the paper script. 

But then someone kicks backward, throwing the sharp end of their sword through the wool siding of a tent left up from the festival. Ranboo scrambles backward, raising his sword in shaking defiance. 

Techno glances through the slash through the cloth. “Oh. Hey, Ranboo.”

All Ranboo can do is watch as he digs under his netherite chestplate, producing a thin, familiar leather notebook. His other journal.

“Voices say this is yours,” he says, holding it out in offering. 

Ranboo tentatively reaches forward and takes it from his hands, only nodding because he can’t trust his voice at the moment.

Techno looks down at him for a long moment, a look in his eyes Ranboo can’t decipher. Ranboo’s hair stands on end even when he looks back down to the trampled grass underneath him. 

“At least get to high ground, alright? Stay safe,” Techno says at last, grip tightening on his sword as the voices around them get louder as combat draws closer. 

Ranboo nods one last time and Techno leaves him be.

He flips open the notebook, relieved to find it's exactly how he left it (How he remembers he left it. And how reliable is that, anymore?). He tucks it back into his shirt pocket, next to the other, and gingerly steps out from under the tent. 

The rain bears down harder. Ranboo has to shrug off the burning sensation under his waterlogged armor. But then he feels the electric anticipation in the air even past his smoldering skin. 

The storm’s turned violent now. Tommy and Tubbo are vulnerable, on the high platforms above the rest of the chaos.

Dream would let them burn, let the force of nature engulf them and revel in it.

He curses to himself, pulling up the depths of his own magic and throwing himself onto the obsidian scaffolding. 

For a single, blazing moment, he feels _ecstasy_. Invigorated with raw power as his teleportation magic gets set alight by the strike of lightning. Electricity forces itself into his chest and twists its claws through his hearts. Raw power crackles through him, and for one delirious moment, he thinks he might never die. The booming thunder around him is deafening, the rumbling of greater things melding cleanly with the screaming. 

(The screaming? Who’s screaming? Ranboo turns sharply, but the light’s already corroded his vision. He can’t see, he can barely hear, there’s not much time left–)

The tides of death wash over him, a stinging balm over the wound of demise. But the coolness is preferable, Ranboo thinks, as he comes back to himself in the ditch at spawn.

He feels lighter. As if he’s lost a part of himself. 

The rain’s cleared up, now, the sun parting through the clouds, long fluffy ones drifting aimlessly across the sky. The brightness hurts his eyes, but it’s peaceful.

...What was he doing again?

He reaches into the inside pocket of his coat. He needs some guiding influence, but it’s not there. He pats down every pocket he has frantically, everywhere he could’ve possibly shoved it away without thinking. But– the book is gone, _his book is gone._

And he’s _used_ to coming to in a place he needs a moment to register, he’s used to just _‘wake up’_ for lack of a better word. But then he can pull out his memory book and pick up where he left off.

He shakes his head. He has to get to L’Manburg. He has to get back to his house, he needs to figure out where he left it before he gets distracted. Before he loses the shallow well of memories he has left.

L’Manburg’s under siege? It sounds… right, but he doesn’t like the implications. Tommy’s back, but he wasn’t right either. And everyone was yelling over him and fighting and–

Techno saw him. Techno returned his book. Techno let him go. 

That’s something. If things take a turn for the worst maybe he can… go north? The icy cold Techno lives in won’t be too uninhabitable. It’s different than what he knows, but the chill is familiar, in its own way.

He runs up the hill, as fast as his legs can take him.

And– 

The Community House is still here.

That means– that means none of it was real. The past few days, he must’ve… dreaming or something, yeah. Thank god. He just needs to go home then. Nothing’s wrong, he must’ve been hallucinating, or something. He won’t worry about it. He’ll just go back to his house, maybe spend a couple days in. Prepare for the festival. 

He backs up slowly, hitting the trunk of a tree instead of the usual forest of bamboo. Then Ranboo finally looks around.

The land is empty. Eret’s museum, the log scaffolding of new homes, everything’s _gone_. Not exploded, but like it was never even there. Ranboo can even see the empty plains further away, where the ice cream shop was.

Something’s wrong. Something’s very wrong.

He runs up the hill, towards L’Manburg. His breath catches as he spots the imposing, dark stone walls prominently squared around the lower end. He curses, this must’ve been Dream’s plan from the start. Ruin the country and then lock them all inside. Tommy’s wooden path doesn't extend further down, so Ranboo has to duck between trees to come down the base of the walls. 

He brushes his hand over the stone, eyes widening. It’s not obsidian– it's blackstone and concrete. Dream would never be so careless on a job like this. He certainly didn't the last time he walled in L’Manburg.

He circles the boundaries, tracing a hand over the dark stone as he searches for an entrance. There’s a break in the walls just ahead, with an opening leading into the shallow bank of the river. 

This is… odd. The land feels the same, even when it’s so different. He’s sure this is L’Manburg. It has to be L’Manburg. 

He plunges a foot into the water, jumping backward as it _burns_ . Right. He died. No armor. None of his stuff, none of his usual protection, and worst of all, neither of his books. He inhales shakily. He needs to find someone. Phil or Techno, preferably. He hadn’t betrayed them, they might afford him a moment to explain _what’s going on_. 

He can see the… hto dog van? He thinks it could be, based on Eret’s museum? He doesn’t know why they’re recreating ‘historical artifacts’ in the middle of L’Manburg, it feels silly, given the situation. He crouches down on the stone to investigate the waterfront, to assess any way he could get around, when an arrow whizzes right past to his head. 

He jerks back sharply, reaching for his weapons on instinct even when they’re not there. A figure stands on the roof of the van with their bow pulled back. Two more come running down to meet him, not held back by his own limitations with water. 

He shrinks back against the stone walls, considering running for a moment. But he doesn’t know this land anymore, he doesn’t know how confident he is that the panic room is even _there_ , so he can’t justify going. If he gets killed here, he can just respawn again and make a run for it. Go as far as he can and be _rid_ of this mess.

(Ranboo knows he’ll never be rid of this mess. Not because he could ever run far enough, but because he’d always be pulled back. He can’t let the people he cares about get hurt.)

The two figures finally trap him, looking down on him from above as he curls backward against the wall, his tail batting fruitlessly against the stone. With the distinct, clean lines of their uniforms, he’s certain they aren’t with Dream. Not with his L’Manburg either. 

A man looks down at him, a face he somewhat recognizes. Just… with fuller skin, eyes darkened with color, a formal uniform instead of a yellow jumper.

“Alivebur..?” Ranboo tries slowly. 

The man laughs awkwardly. “Uh. As opposed to what, Deadbur? It’s just Wilbur, actually. Have we met..?”

And Ranboo can see it, can recognize it now. Wilbur, _alive_. And not a madman, not the catalyst of the end of old L’Manburg, as the person Tommy speaks of. The kind of man who built a nation from nothing but his words. 

“Deadbur, if Dream has his say about it,” the… it’s Tommy, it has to be Tommy, says. He looks bright, sharp. Not dulled down by the exile, the wars, or the endless conflict. 

The archer nudges past them, defaulting to Tommy’s side without a second thought. And Tommy lets him, leaning away to fit perfectly beside him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. 

His friend at his side laughs, somewhere between light and exhausted, so that must mean… 

“Are you Tubbo?”

“Hm?” Tubbo blinks up at him, eyes clear and unburdened. He stands tall, too. the crisp lines of his uniform glowing in the sunlight. “Do I know you?”

Ranboo looks into those eyes and the blistering reality catches up to him. They look so _young_. He wants to say something, he means to _say something_ , but his voice catches and another well of tears overcomes him.

He’s not back. He’s somewhere far worse. And he can only think of one explanation: that, maybe, he’d managed to slip back through time or into some alternate universe. 

It isn’t the country as he knows it because it _isn’t,_ not yet. It is still being forged from the ground up, and he is being forced to witness it.

( _Is this Dream’s last trick? His last plot to make Ranboo feel insane?_ the ugly part of his brain questions. But it isn’t, it can’t be. 

Dream’s words ring in the back of his mind. 

_“I’m not even real.”_ )

“It’s a…” he swallows around the lump in his throat, and gestures to the dark half of his skin. “Enderman thing. Can’t do eye contact, ‘s all. Give me a minute.”

“Oh, _fuck,”_ Wilbur frantically unbuttons his jacket, draping it over Ranboo, then calls over his shoulder. “Tommy! Go hold the van door open. Here, come with me. Let’s go somewhere darker. Tubbo, lay down some blocks, we need to get inside.”

Both of them snap to life at his command, falling in line without a moment’s hesitation. Ranboo tenses as Wilbur leaves a hand on his shoulder, but lets the man guide him inside. Once they’re past the stained glass windows, the inside of the van is lit with low torchlight, just enough for the human eye to see comfortably in. It’s much better than being outside.

He finds himself apologizing already. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt anything. I’m just…” he trails off, not knowing how to enunciate the whirlwind of thoughts sweeping over him. 

Wilbur waves him off. “No, it’s, uh, it’s cool. I have family that are hybrids too. Don't worry about it.”

“Oh, Techno?” That makes sense. Tommy too, for going along with it so quickly instead of protesting. 

Wilbur looks at him oddly. “Do you know him?”

Ranboo freezes, cursing silently to himself. “I… yes..? I do? I do! Yes, I know Technoblade. Not, like, personally. Just of him, y’know?”

“...What’s your name again?” Wilbur says after a long, heavy moment of contemplation.

“Ranboo,” he says hesitantly. “Boo, not ‘bow.’”

“Ran-bow,” Tommy repeats. “I think I prefer that one.”

Ranboo tries not to let sentiment show on his face, because that is so unbearably like Tommy that he might cry again. 

“Tommy,” Wilbur says. “Play nice.”

Tommy rolls his eyes but Tubbo just smiles, pushing him back. “Well, I’m Tubbo! Or, well, you already knew that, right?”

“I… yeah,” Ranboo says bashfully. He’s already messed up, he isn’t sure how he’s gonna navigate the whole business with _changing_ things. 

“Well, _I’m_ Tommy,” Tommy says, shoving back harder. “Leader of this great nation–”

Wilbur cuffs him on the back of the head. “Oh, shut up. _I’m_ President. And this is my right-hand man, unfortunately.”

Ranboo nods, bowing shortly and shrugging off Wilbur’s coat to fold over and hand back off. “It’s good to meet you all. Thank you for your hospitality.”

Wilbur gives him another odd look, but perseveres regardless. “Okay, so now that it’s not legally considered torture, I have some questions for you.”

“Oh,” Ranboo says. That’s fair enough.

“Are you working with Dream?”

“No,” he says immediately. If anyone is off-put by his quick response, they don’t question it. “No, never.”

Wilbur hums. “How’d you get here?”

Ranboo can’t answer that. The memory is already hazy, all he can remember is a blur of heat and pain. He looks down. “I don’t know. I just spawned in, then I wandered until I found something.”

Wilbur tilts his head, curiosity gleaming in his eyes. “Do you know where you are?”

“I think I’m in the–” his voice catches in his throat. He can’t trust them. Sure, they’re all obviously against Dream _now_ , but later? He doesn’t–

Or.

Maybe they don’t have to be.

Maybe he can… nudge things, in the right direction. Maybe he can fix what Dream’s done before it even happens. 

He doesn’t care about L’Manburg. But the breathing heart of it is here, alive and well and yet untarnished. He can _save it._

“I’m just… lost. I think?” Ranboo says finally. “Bad with memory things. I don’t know where we are.”

Wilbur smiles, then. “Well, Ranboo. I think you might be L’Manburg’s first tourist.”


	2. and the orchestra begins to play

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> brrrrr

Tommy immediately isn’t happy. “You’re saying some hybrid  _ amnesiac _ is our first tourist and you’re  _ proud _ of it? Wilbur– ”

“Tommy,” Wilbur says sternly. “L’Manburg does not discriminate on the basis of  _ race, gender–” _

“Is he  _ staying?!”  _ Tommy barks back. They both whip around to Ranboo. 

He shrinks back into himself, not sure what to do. “...If that’s okay?”

Wilbur grins, sharp and cunning like he’s seen Fundy do, turning to Tommy with a triumphant glare. Tommy opens his mouth to retaliate, but gets cut off.

“Wilbur,” Tubbo speaks up finally, and the van silences. “Is it safe? I mean, tensions are high with Dream, we haven't even declared independence yet, and–”

“I can fight,” Ranboo says quickly, already regretting it as they all turn to him again. “I mean– if you need it? I don’t,” he pulls out the empty lining of his pockets. “I don’t have anything. But if you get me a weapon, I can fight.”

Wilbur laughs, but his voice is hard and cool. “Yeah, no. You can stay in the van.”

“Ah,” Ranboo says.

Tommy bristles. “We don’t have time to  _ babysit,  _ Wilbur.”

Wilbur fixes him with a look. “What do you think I’m doing all day here with you?”

Tommy  _ fumes, _ opening his mouth with another sharp retort. All the yelling starts to run together and all too quickly he feels entirely out of depth as Wilbur and Tommy go at it. 

Tubbo pushes back two brewing stands to jump and sit against the window next to Ranboo. He leans in, holding up his hand to whisper to Ranboo in a hushed voice. “They’ll be at it for a while.”

Ranboo nods, following his lead and leaning back against the wall. It’s easier when no one expects him to talk. His head is spinning, with no order to it as his thoughts and memories shake around in disjointed lines. He’s paranoid that he’s forgetting things already,  _ important _ things, like Fundy’s breaking point, Tommy and Techno’s heated exchange, practically annexing himself from L’Manburg’s inner circle, what– 

What Dream said to him. He needs to keep that in the forefront of his mind, even if he  _ wants _ to forget. “Do you have a book and quill?”

“A book? I mean, sure,” Tubbo digs into the pockets of his dark blue uniform, pulling out a thin journal. “Here.”

Ranboo tenderly plucks it from his hands, smoothing his own over the rough leather. It's different, but it'll do. “Thank you.”

He starts with the basics. List of friends, list of acquaintances, list of who he can’t trust under any circumstances (Dream’s name goes first on that one). Friends and acquaintances are harder, though. He doesn’t know these people as well as he knows their future selves. Tommy and Tubbo will be easy to predict compared to Wilbur, at least, so they go to friends. Wilbur is in acquaintances, with a sharp question mark next to it. 

He can feel Tubbo’s gaze turn to him immediately.

Ranboo snaps the book shut. 

“Thank you,” he says again, hoping the sincere gratitude shines through his tone. 

“Of course!” Tubbo says, “You looked busy, what are you writing about?”

“Just what I can remember,” Ranboo runs a hand over the creased leather one last time, then tucks it in the inside lining of his jacket. “And you guys. Waking up. Coming here.”

Tubbo doesn’t look like he quite believes him, but he doesn’t push the issue, which is enough for Ranboo. Tommy and Wilbur’s shouting match has finally cooled down, both of them still seething but seemingly at some compromise.

“Call Fundy and Eret. We can’t draft a declaration without them,” Wilbur says.

Tommy snaps to attention, smiling, and Tubbo lights up. “We’re doing it now?”

Wilbur smiles. “No time like the present, right?”

He jumps down off the counter. “Okay, what do you need? Pen? Paper?”

Tommy rummages through his pockets. “Do we have any more books?”

“I’m fresh out,” Tubbo says. “I can go run and check your house for leather?”

“I don’t think I have any. Fuck,” He pulls out his communicator. “I’ll tell Eret to bring some.”

It’s weird, hearing Tommy say Eret’s name without any vehemence behind it. Like he’s an ally. Ranboo looks up to Wilbur’s eyes on him as the two of them bustle around the van looking for scraps. He tilts his head at him, something assessing in his eyes, looking away before catching his gaze entirely. 

It sends a chill down Ranboo’s spine regardless. 

He straightens. “Do you want me to go?”

“We’re writing history,” Wilbur says. “Do you want to be here?”

Ranboo finds he can’t answer.

“Ugh, Fundy’s gone offline,” Tubbo says from the storage room behind, leaning back through the open doorway. “Are we waiting for him?”

Wilbur turns to him. “Is Eret on his way?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Tommy says. “Tubbo, go outside and meet him.”

“I’m looking for leather!”

“He’s  _ bringing leather–” _

Ranboo gathers his coat and steps outside while they’re occupied. The sun is slipping towards the horizon. Once it’s dark, he’ll go looking for any other recognizable landmarks. The spider spawner should still be here, right? He can gather materials and then… 

He doesn’t know what ‘then’ leads to.

L’Manburg is coming to fruition behind him, and he doesn’t know what comes next. Does he stay with them? Does he let them create the country that’ll ravish them completely? Could he stop it? Not on his own, of course, he’d need outside help. He’d need Dream.

The thought of trying to work with Dream is enough to set him on edge. Entirely out of the question. He drops back against the side of the van. He can hear the rumbling of voices inside, both bickering and excited. Something’s coming together behind him. Why can’t he be happy? He’s meant to be happy. 

“Ah,” A familiar, low voice startles him out of his thoughts. “Can I help you?”

Ranboo jolts up immediately, but it’s someone he recognizes. It’s odd to see Eret without his crown. He’s dressed up in all his enchanted netherite armor, a stark change to the rest of the revolution. Somewhat disorientating, but familiar. He’s always sympathized with the want to stay protected.

“...Hello?” Eret tries again.

Oh. Right, “Uhm,” Ranboo waves a hand awkwardly. “Sorry, I just wandered in. They’re all inside.”

Eret’s hand falls to the sword at his belt. Ranboo blanches.

“I’m not– I’m not with Dream or anyone. I’m just lost, that’s all. I’m going to be out of your hair soon.”

Tommy slams a foot over the pressure plate on the other side of the iron door. “Ran-bow– Oh, Eret, hurry  _ up _ .”

“It’s Ranboo,” Ranboo says weakly. 

Eret glances from Tommy to Ranboo. “Is he..?”

“He’s cool, now for the love of god,  _ c’mon _ , we have things to do.”

Eret laughs awkwardly, not quite easing away from his weapon. “Sure, okay. Wilbur knows he’s here?”

“Yeah, we’re good,” Tommy rolls his eyes. “They’re already doing the preamble. Did you get the leather?”

“Oh, of course,” he steps inside, but not without sparing one last passing glance to Ranboo. He hands over a bundle of tanned cowskin. “How is it going so far?”

Ranboo turns away and lets them get to it. He watches the treeline that just barely reaches over the walls enclosing the entire space. He’s anxious. Claustrophobic, it feels like he can’t breathe. It’s like Dream before the Exile all over again, he can’t imagine living like this by choice. He takes in a steady breath to ground himself. He can’t let his anxiety get to him. 

He takes a shaky step forward, moving slowly as the sand and mud beneath his feet try to bog down his steps. He’ll have to reinvest in boots. Reinvest in  _ everything _ , now that he thinks about it. That’ll be fun. He was practically handed most of what he needed on day one of joining, but he definitely doesn’t miss the grind required to push his armor and tools to their best. 

He tries to take in another breath, but the air gets trapped in his throat. 

Ranboo’s gaze flits back up to the imposing walls surrounding the van. It’s too tight. His thoughts skid to a burning halt. He needs to– he needs to get out of here. Just for a moment. He leans into the building amplitude of his magic, trusting it to carry him away from here. 

He lands on the top of blackstone walls. Which is still… not great, but an improvement. It’s uncomfortable, but he's able to lay down for a moment and pause as the sun dips lower in the sky. Everything is more open now. The trees part a short distance away from the wall, cut low enough to not obstruct any part of his view. The cliff face is larger too, without the ruin of time come to claim it.

In some ways, it’s different enough not to feel like the L’Manburg he’s used to. 

He pulls the notebook out of his pocket, thumbing through the blank pages until he gets to the list of allies. He’d shut the book so quickly that spots of ink are blotted in a messy reflection on the page before. Still legible, though.

Now that he’s alone, he doesn’t feel guilty lingering on the scrawling script. He traces his hand over the familiar writing. It’s not as much of a comfort as his longer memory books, but it would do for now. He just needs to remake himself. Readjust. 

He rolls over and starts writing. 

Now he has to… write down what’s happened. Everything. He can’t write it in the beginning. It’ll be too easy to find. He flips all the way to the back, but it’s just as obvious. Frustrated, he chooses a random page in the middle and starts writing. Right. The festival trainwreck, Quackity almost executing him, his pets, Dream and Techno blowing L’Manburg to the ground. 

(Ranboo wonders if they succeeded. He wonders if anyone survived.)

Then… the lightning. The details are hazy, but he knows there was a bolt. One that struck him. One that killed him. 

…He must’ve lost a life, then. 

He hadn’t realized in the moment, but in hindsight, he’s sure he did. The thought itself is chilling enough to pause in writing.

He almost misses the shadow making its way over the wall.

But he recognizes the familiar pale particles of an invisibility potion glimmering in the darkness, along with the shallow treading of footsteps pushing the dirt and grass aside. The potion dulls the shine, but he’s certain he can see the outline of armor as well. And they’re heading to the van, where the rest of L’Manburg is drafting their declaration.

He curses, dropping low to the ground to stay out of sight. His arm goes to summon his weapon by instinct, but nothing comes. Right. No sword. Or axe. Or bow, or  _ anything _ useful. 

Another person enters the field, the pale color of their uniform easily catching the dying light and bathing in the yellow-orange glow of the sunset. 

He needs to get down. Now, when Tommy and the others might need him. He glances down at the water below uneasily. Nope, definitely not getting off here. He eyes the trees further away. That’ll work. 

He rolls over, jumping off and throwing himself through the branches. The sticks drag into his sleeves, catching on his sleeves and cutting up his arms. He falls to the ground with an unceremonious  _ thud _ . Success! He brushes off the leaves stuck on his coat and pulls himself together to stand up. But as he tries a first step forward, his ankle protests and he almost trips and falls back down.

He leans against a tree and shakes out the joint. C’mon, he’s  _ so _ close, he can– 

“Hello?”

Ranboo snaps up, catching the onlooker’s gaze for only a moment before crashing back to the earth. That,  _ that  _ hurts now. More than just an ankle. He can probably walk it off with a healing potion, but god, he doesn’t know if he’ll get that far. He blinks a few times, and once he gets past seeing stars, he looks up at another familiar face. 

Younger and softer, Fundy looks down at him. His fur is fluffier, Ranboo realizes. Like puppy coats. His eyes narrow as he gingerly holds out a hand to him. 

“Hi,” Ranboo says, breathless. 

Fundy frowns. “Are you okay?”

“No,” Ranboo takes in a shaky breath and feels his lungs beat against his bruised ribs. “I, uh, no, I don’t think so.”

His eyes narrow and he digs into the pockets of his coat, pulling out a small red vial. He kneels down and presses it into Ranboo’s hand. “Here, I have a healing potion. Are you..?”

Ranboo takes a greedy gulp of it, the pain already easing. His chest feels lighter immediately and he can finally sit up. “Thank you.”

Fundy nods. “Yeah, no problem. So, uhm… are you from  _ here  _ or are you with Dream?”

“No, I’m just… I’m just lost. I think. Mr. Soot helped me.”

Fundy chokes. “I–  _ What?! Mr. _ Soot?”

He blinks at him. “He’s presi–  _ in charge _ , isn’t he? Don’t I need to be respectful?”

“Please,” Fundy says, smiling widely even as he holds a hand over his mouth to cover it. “Please call him that to his face. I am  _ begging _ you.”

Ranboo looks down again, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. Anxiety bubbles up in his stomach, but he pushes it aside. “I, uh, sure. Okay.”

They linger in awkward silence for a long moment before he hears the door of the van crash open. Fundy jumps to attention and Ranboo is right behind him. 

If he squints, he can see the glowing outline of the invisible armor bounding away in the darkness. He sighs, dropping his head against the bark behind him.

Tommy goes running off after them, but without the artificial boost of a swiftness potion, there’s no way he’ll catch up. 

Wilbur and Tubbo come around the van, weapons drawn. Wilbur nods him forward and Tubbo cautiously investigates behind. Whatever they’re expecting, they don’t find. 

Eret comes trotting back from the rear. He shakes his head at Wilbur, who sighs and sheaths his sword. They all look ragged. Desperate. But physically unharmed.

Wilbur smiles at Fundy, taking a hand and brushing the fur on his face back before bringing him into a hug. After pulling back, Ranboo realizes the stark contrast in uniform between them. Fundy looks almost  _ silly _ amongst the rest of them, his pastel uniform soft amongst the line of deep royal blue. The fabric keeping his shoulders squared is too stiff, making him look less imposing and more like a child playing dress-up.

(Ranboo looks at him and remembers fur flecked in blood, sharp teeth and sharper weapons.)

“What happened?” Fundy asks. “Is everything okay?”

Tommy returns empty-handed.

Wilbur ducks his head down, but when he comes back up, it feels different. He looks stern, resolute. “We finished drafting our Declaration. Signed it, too–”

“Dream’s declared war on us,” Tommy spits out, seething. 

Ranboo freezes.

Wilbur keeps talking. “Dream’s declared war on us. But this isn’t a moment to fear, men. This is our chance to consolidate our power and  _ establish _ ourselves as an independent nation. We knew it wouldn’t be easy, but Dream has foolishly allowed us our chance to seize power,” Wilbur says. “And we will  _ grasp it.” _

Everyone starts to brighten again. Even Ranboo begins to feel lighter. But then he catches himself and looks back down to the ground. 

Maybe something akin to resolve is shifting and breaking inside him. 

“Ranboo,” Ranboo is helpless but to look up at him. Wilbur’s voice sounds honest, but his eyes are  _ piercing _ , searching for something in his own that he can’t recognize. “I know I refused your assistance before, but obviously we need it more than ever now. And I can understand if you’re hesitant now, but we would appreciate it beyond words.”

Everyone’s looking at him now. Ranboo, hurting and alone in the den of starved wolves. He closes his eyes because he can’t take this already. The dividing line is being drawn around this circle of property and the dark walls serving as tangible representation. 

But they are alone. They have each other, but they suffocate alone.

Just like him. But he has nobody and nothing. He has to be smart about this.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll help you.”

When he opens his eyes, Wilbur is smiling. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [jazz hands] so there’s more!! there is Much to come, but updates will be irregular because i can’t stick to a schedule and school is a bitch. plot wise this is probably going to extend all the way to the end of pogtopia v manberg conflict, and i will say. it’ll get worse before it gets better. BUT it will be happy ending
> 
> so! slow chapter but shit is about to pick up. big d appearance soon and his fucking penchant for manipulating minors
> 
> leave me a kudos & comment if you enjoyed!! ;*


	3. a melody

“Are you okay? You look a little scratched up.”

Ranboo pulls his coat tighter over his chest. His clothes are ruined, but it feels worse to have the still-healing wounds in the open air. “I just fell through the trees.”

Tubbo gives him a look. “Wh– how’d you get up there?”

“I was on the wall?”

“How did you get up _there?”_

“Uh,” he pats his dark side again. “I can teleport when I’m stressed. I can’t, like, control it, though.”

Tommy frowns. “Do you do it while fighting?”

“Not usually. I can’t predict it. Well. I _can,_ right before it happens, but not without too much warning. I just get antsy and,” he throws up his arms. _“Pop,_ gone.” 

“I mean,” Fundy says slowly. “It could be useful if you could control it. And hey! Trial by fire would be a great way to play with it!”

Ranboo ducks his head. He’d prefer not to chase down the ugly emotions that lead to panic. Fundy somehow catches his discomfort and changes topics.

“How good are you at brewing? We’ve been burning through potions faster than we can craft them.”

“Decent enough,” Ranboo says as they all begin to wander back inside.

“Oh! Potion duty is a great idea,” Wilbur says. He claps a hand on Ranboo’s shoulders. “This way, you’ll probably miss the bulk of the fight. Do you need to sleep?”

Ranboo blinks. “Uhm. Usually?”

He nods. “Okay, then we’ll work in shifts. I’ll show you the ropes,” he glances around and points. “Uhhh, Tubbo, Eret, can you watch the progress around midnight? We’ll switch over.”

Tommy frowns and eyes the brewing stand. “I can do potions, too.”

“Nope. Not wasting resources on your pride,” Tubbo says, pushing the jarred blaze powder away. 

Fundy settles down behind them. “Just sleep, Tommy. Join the cool kids.”

He scoffs. “What, the sleep-all-night kids?”

Wilbur pats his shoulder. “Tommy, I want to put you in charge of our forces tomorrow,” that snags his attention and Wilbur continues. “But I won’t if I don’t consider you well-rested enough. I don’t want to put anyone in danger.”

“The cool kids!” He says, pulling out some bedding from under the counter. “Love it here!”

Ranboo huffs amusedly and lets them get to it. 

Wilbur draws back as Tommy loudly distracts himself. “I want to make invisibility and swiftness. Tubbo and Eret can take care of strength and everything else.”

He nods, taking the clump of sugarcane Wilbur hands over.

“Flatten this, I’ll start the stove to boil it down into sugar,” He clicks his tongue as he cards through ingredients in the drawers. “Hm. Already have fermented spider eyes. Take this.”

“Ah,” Ranboo says. He takes the armful of mushrooms and bloody eyes and holds it against his chest as Wilbur gets to work.

He ends up not doing much, save for holding ingredients. And even then, the counter is much more effective. Wilbur works quickly and efficiently, moving with the confidence that only comes from skill and familiarity. Eventually, though, the rest of the revolutionaries are slipping off to sleep. Which is great. Wonderful. But it means there’s no barrier between him and Wilbur. Now he’s vulnerable and alone. 

“So what’s in your book now?” Wilbur asks innocently enough.

If Ranboo wasn’t already on edge, that would’ve set him off. He coughs. “What I can remember. Who you guys are. That Dream’s bad.”

“Oh?” He slices some melon into thin slivers. “Do you know him?”

“I don’t remember anything concrete,” he lies carefully, “But you guys are nice. And if he’s against you, he’s doing _something_ wrong.”

“That’s sweet,” Wilbur slides the cuts into a glass jar with his knife. “So nothing else yet?”

“No,” he says. “Nothing worth anything.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s just,” Ranboo shouldn’t, he really shouldn’t, but… it’s been a really long day. He can stay vague. He can unload his trauma casually. “Nothing I remember is good.”

Wilbur hums a low note. “Well. Sometimes the less happy stuff is necessary, right? Builds character. And it all comes around. Hey, when we win independence, you can write it down as a happy memory.”

“You think you’ll win?”

“I _know_ we’ll win,” he says, with enough confidence that Ranboo almost believes it. 

. . .

Ranboo wakes up with a clear head, which immediately envelopes him in a fresh wave of dread. That usually means that he’s forgotten something. He grasps blindly at his journal, reveling in the sense of calm he feels reaching for the familiar weight. He’ll be fine. He just needs to know what to do from here.

He shrinks into the corner, muffling the rustle of fabric as he peeks open the leather. Lists. He likes lists. Short and easy. 

_Friends,_ is written in familiar, looped handwriting. _Tommy. Tubbo. Maybe Techno?_

_Acquaintances,_ a longer list right underneath. _Fundy. Eret. Wilbur? Phil??_

And one name underneath _Avoid,_ the ink carved into the paper and underlined for good measure. 

_Dream._

That’s easy enough. One person to avoid. He can manage that. 

He flips to the next page but it’s blank. That can’t be right. How is he here? He skims the back cover too, but it’s just as empty. He wouldn’t– there’s no sign of anything being ripped _out_ , is there? He starts moving frantically, thumbing through pages for any sign of explanation. He’s almost midway through when he finally lands on tight, cramped lines containing paragraphs of information. Thank god. 

Relief washes away quickly as memories come flooding back. He closes the book before he even finishes reading. Looming tragedy. Great.

He looks up finally, forgoing stressful distractions to take in his surroundings. Light trails through the stained windows and catches on the gleam of brewing stands. He remembers now. Back in the van, in old L’Manburg.

He’s not first to rise, either. Tubbo cards through ingredients, melting and grinding them into consumables for even more potions. He’s gathered a formidable amount, they’re all stacked up against the furnaces blocking the windows on the other side. He looks exhausted, bleary-eyed as he robotically goes through the necessary motions. Fundy and Tommy are passed out in the bedrolls next to him, with another empty one laid on the far end. And he can see the back of Wilbur’s heel poking out from the closet behind them.

He untangles himself from the blankets noiselessly, rising to wander up to Tubbo’s side. 

“Hello,” he says.

“ _Shit!”_ Tubbo startles backward, dropping the glass bottle in his hand. 

Ranboo dives after it and just barely catches it in time. “Ah.”

“Sorry. Here, let me,” Tubbo cautiously takes it back, setting it down on the counter. “Sorry. Yeah.”

“No, no, I’m sorry,” Ranboo stumbles. “I didn’t mean to spook you. Have you… eaten..?”

Tubbo squints out at the incoming light. “What time is it?”

Ranboo blinks. “I, uh, don’t know. Morning? Breakfast time?”

Tubbo blinks back. “Huh?”

“...Where’s Eret?”

“Oh!” Tubbo pulls back, carefully stepping over Tommy’s sleeping form to crane a hand into the open chest. “He went out for more materials. ‘Said he’d be back in a bit. Ooh, we still have potatoes!”

Tommy groans, kicking his feet up against Tubbo’s legs. He nudges him back with his own heel and hops back. “Here, you eat too.”

“I’m not...” He crumples under Tubbo’s gaze and takes the offered food. “Okay.”

He beams and pulls his legs up to sit on the counter beside him as they settle to watch the brewing stand work. The rest of the revolutionaries begin to stir soon enough. Fundy is next to rise, yawning and stumbling over to eat with them.

“Good morning,” Ranboo greets warily. 

Fundy mumbles something unintentional and makes grabby hands for Tubbo’s other potato, who hands it over wordlessly. 

“Ah,” he says, at a loss. 

Tubbo smiles. “Mornings, right?”

Then Tommy finally flops over, frowning and squinting sleepily from the floor at their murmuring. 

“What’re you ‘all–” he jolts up, all exhaustion pushed aside. “ _Revolution day!”_

Tubbo throws up his hands and cheers with him “ _Revolution day!”_

Wilbur groans, voice distant from behind the back room, even with the door half-open. “Tommy, _shush_.”

He jumps up in his pajamas, kicking at Wilbur’s legs. “Wilbur! C’mon, _up!”_

“Have you even eaten yet?”

“Doesn’t matter, c’mon!”

As Tommy and Wilbur sort themselves out, the heavy van door swings open. Ranboo tenses, but it’s just Eret cautiously wandering back in. 

“Oh, there you are, Eret! You were out a while,” Tubbo eyes the bag he has slung over his shoulder. “Did you get more ingredients?”

“Yeah, sorry,” he laughs sheepishly. Then he flashes a smile and nods to everyone else. “Just had to make sure everything’s ready. I have more food. Something sweet, should be enough for everyone.”

Nothing gets the rest of them moving like the promise of sweet things. Ranboo sits back as Tubbo and Tommy lunge for the bag as Fundy tries his best to look uninterested before climbing over them to get a handful of his own. Eret passes Ranboo his own sweet pastry, something light and dripping jam. It’s good. Less filling than potatoes, but a nice pick-me-up.

Wilbur clears his throat and they all quiet down. 

“Today,” he says, with the measured calmness that comes from obvious practice. He’s been waiting for the opportunity for this, Ranboo can tell. “We fight for our independence. Gentlemen, may I read our declaration?”

And there are easy smiles in the growing light of morning. The laughter dies out quickly as he begins.

It sounds nice, sure. But they’re just words. No nation stands on words alone. 

As Wilbur talks, he watches the stained windows. The shadows of the wall fall into the canal, skirting over the water and dancing across the sides of the van. Wait. He blinks. Once, twice. The shadows still move. He squints, ducking to get a good view of the top of the walls. 

Someone’s up there. 

Multiple someones, by the looks of things. 

He leans against the window to get a better view as the light catches on something in their hands, shining off with a bright glare. 

The crosshair of a crossbow. 

Tommy follows his gaze. And soon enough, everyone is glancing warily at the windows as Wilbur pushes on. “This book declares that the nation which shall be henceforth known as L'Manberg is separate, emancipated and independent from the nation of Dream SMP.”

“Wilbur–” Tommy interrupts. 

“The union of the masters of men. Together we are one. When in the course of human events it becomes necessary–”

“ _Wilbur,”_ Tommy repeats. Wilbur looks up this time, scowling sharply before he recognizes the horror in his voice. “They’re surrounding us.”

They let loose a flaming arrow, hot enough to pierce the glass and send shards across the counter. Everything begins falling through. 

“ _Shit,”_ Wilbur curses, switching tones immediately. “Ranboo, stay in the van. Don’t let them get in. Here, take Independance.”

“Ah,” Ranboo carefully takes the messy pile of paper. “Okay. Great.”

Tommy jumps up to Wilbur’s side. “Tubbo, get the crossbows. Eret and Fundy, lead the vanguard. You’ll get an opening, I need to stay with Wil.”

Fundy cranes his head through the broken glass. “They’re heading south, I think. For the tower.”

“Let’s go, then,” Tommy straps his scabbard to his side, the shortsword almost covering the full length down to his calves. They nod in tandem, moving out the door in an orderly line.

Already, they’re getting swept up in the tides of conflict. And Ranboo can’t fight it, they need to leave, _now_ , but– 

“Tommy,” he whispers hoarsely. 

The boy turns to him in the doorway, looking wholly unamused. “Yeah?”

“Stay safe,” he says. And that’s all he can do.

Tommy scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Yeah, okay. See you in a bit, Ran-bow.” 

That’s all he can do. 

The iron door closes with a hard slam. He’d wanted to watch them go, but suddenly he felt too nauseated to do anything but drop to the ground. He claws a hand over his mouth to smother the heaving breaths. 

He flips open his book.

Friends (Tommy, Tubbo), acquaintances (Wilbur, Fundy, Eret), who to avoid (Dream).

...And he’d sent them alone to face the sole enemy he’d marked down.

He skips forward a few dozen blank pages to what he knows. What he remembered. 

Doomsday. L’Manburg’s violent ending, the cataclysmic fracture of family and home. All Dream’s fault. He’d sent them _alone_. 

How is he– why is he _here_ , just sitting around when everything is at stake?

“I don’t know,” something familiar says, “why are you?”

Ranboo jerks back and suddenly, the gray walls around him slide into dark stone, purple fluid vying for release from the cracks.

“Not now,” his back hits the wall with a slam, but the pain is something grounding. Something he needs. “No, no, no–”

“Just go,” Dream says. “Easy enough, right?”

“You’re not– you’re not here, you’re not real,” _something_ churns in his stomach, the light outside sputtering out as a shadow falls over them. 

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“You’re making things up. You’re trying to get in my head,” he screws his eyes shut. 

“I’m _in_ your head,” it sounds tired, but vaguely amused, “I don’t know how many times I need to tell you that.”

“Sure. Right,” he breathes. The stone wall behind him doesn’t feel like the dark, jagged cuts of obsidian. So he must be imagining that, too. He’s asleep. He’s dreaming. He cracks an eye open. There’s no one in the van with him, because _of course_ there isn’t. He’s alone. “So what do you want?”

“You’re forgetting something.”

“You only come to remind me of the bad things.”

“Do I?” 

Ranboo traces the lines of the counter with his eyes. “Of course you do. You– you…”

“I wouldn’t worry. Last time you couldn’t even finish the job.”

“ _What,”_ Ranboo says, “do you want?”

“Why don’t you just remember?”

He lets out a frustrated noise. “Why don’t you just _tell me?”_

Finally, it says, “...Think about Eret.”

“What about him?”

“ _Think._ If you’ve already forgotten, we’re more fucked than you thought.”

He drops his head against his knees. “When you say it like that,” he says, exhausted, “it almost sounds like you care.”

“Of course I care. I’m you, aren’t I?”

“Yeah. Of course,” he mumbles. He can barely hear himself now. The earth surges around him, defeating static overtaking audibility. His head hurts with the full volume.

“ _God_ ,” It says sharply. “ _Think.”_

“I don’t know what you want from me!” he barks out. 

“I can’t spoonfeed you the answers! You’ll just say I’m lying! Tommy’s acting different around him. So are the others. They _trust_ Eret.”

“Why shouldn’t they?! He’s–” His voice catches. “He’s…”

Something inside him gnashes its teeth. Something inside him _growls._

. . .

The world is bathed in clarity now. He goes running towards the conflict. 

Flaming arrows rain down on the divot of mountain Tommy’s house is nestled inside. Soon enough, a wave of retaliation returns the fire, sending their own arrows back through the broken walls. 

No way he can take the direct route. He dips under the hill, looking over the dirt for a familiar opening. At his touch, the soil spills open to a stone tunnel. Water runs through the middle, stretching out as far as he can see. 

The torchlight is sparse and the darkness is inviting. 

He drops in, running straight to the heart of Tommy’s base. Everything’s still loud, past the noise of clashing forces. The earth groans around him, the water surges, but neither can surpass the overwhelming rumbling behind his ears. 

He bounds forward, weaving between corridors until he finds a brightly armored horde gathered around a ladder. 

“Men, men, you get _back here right now!”_

Wilbur’s voice cuts through the static, barking out harsh orders down the hole. It falls with the beams of light gracing the darkened floor. They go climbing back up, but Ranboo catches the last one’s gaze without thinking. 

They stand there in blistering silence for a heavy moment. 

“Ranboo..?” He’s… that’s right. He’s– _Ranboo_ is here for a reason. And this is Tubbo. Fumbling, off-put, and alone. “You look… Are you okay? And what are you doing here? I thought you were–”

“Don’t– don’t trust Eret,” he wracks his brain desperately, but he can’t remember the _why_. He just knows they shouldn’t, that the soon-king will be making a critical mistake. A deadly one. The one that ends with his name cursed out in the L’Manburg anthem. “He’s…” Ranboo shakes his head. “You can’t let your guard down.”

“What do you mean? He’s–”

“Tubbo, _please_.”

“ _Tubbo!”_ Wilbur calls. “Come up here and _fight!”_

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” He yells back. “Okay, fine. Here, come with me. You’re here now. you might as well fight.”

“Sure,” he says. “Yeah. Okay.” 

He follows him up the ladder, crouching awkwardly under the low ceiling as the other revolutionaries push forward. Tubbo nocks back an arrow and ducks under a slab to get a clear shot on whatever’s ahead. Ranboo stays as close to the far wall as possible, doing everything he can to stay out of their way. It works, to a degree. The others don’t have enough time to notice him, or if they do, they don’t call him out on it immediately. 

But whatever they’re doing is working, because soon enough they’re able to abandon the cover Tommy’s house provides to force their way onward and pursue Dream’s retreating forces. They start cheering at the sight of it, slowing to a stop at the crest of the hill.

Ranboo timidly trots up to meet them. There are some scorch marks on their uniforms, but their armor is unbroken and they don’t seem any worse for wear. 

Wilbur turns to him with a curious look. “I thought you were staying in the van?”

“There’s…” What is there, really? Besides the loose grip he has on an unprovable concept. “Something felt wrong. I needed to make sure you were all okay.”

“And you knew to go through the basement,” Wilbur says. The adrenaline of battle seems to be cooling off again, the rest of them gather around him. 

“I got lucky,” Ranboo lies, eyes flitting to Eret. He looks stoic and unassuming, a practiced officer of war. Tubbo follows his gaze, frowning. 

“Sure,” Wilbur says. Great. Great! Now Wilbur definitely doesn’t trust him. He should’ve just run through the barrage of flaming arrows and dealt with the consequences. “Tubbo, stay with him. Tommy, where are we going from here?”

He blinks, looking down from Ranboo and back at the retreating forces. “We need to pursue them. But… it could be a trap. So we need to be ready, I think. They’re going for Punz’s other tower.”

Wilbur nods and balances a hand over the hilt of his still-sheathed sword. Ranboo hasn’t seen him raise it once. 

Eret coughs, drawing everyone’s attention. 

“Gentlemen,” he says. “I’ve made preparations. There’s a vault deep in our territory. We can gear up and finish them.”

The hair on the back of Ranboo’s neck stands on end, even with the bright reception that garners from the rest of them. Even Tubbo’s eyes are shining. 

“Why didn’t you…” he swallows dryly as everyone turns back to him. “Why did you wait on showing it?”

Eret tilts his head curiously. “I wasn’t sure if we’d need it. And I was right. We can just use it as the final nail in the coffin.”

His heart races, but he can’t be too vocally against him. Not now. He needs to wait, he needs to buy himself time. 

(Time. There’ll be time. He just needs to breathe. Measure his paces. Figure everything out.)

Ranboo nods finally, dipping his head down and following them back to L’Manburg.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so ranboo isn't budging on the "no I can't teleport" character trait for now so my hc justification for this is that all ranboos pull an enderman trait from a grab bag. for now, no silk touch hands, too op. can't give him that kind of power
> 
> anyway!! hopefully we will be out of the revolution arc soon!! im hyped for what's after this :) if you enjoyed i would LOVE a kudos & comment, bitches stressed and they upload serotonin directly into the brain <3


	4. i'm about to lose it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey! so this is gonna be two parter bc there's a Lot and i want to make sure it's all edited properly before posting but dont wanna leave yall hanging. we are so close to getting out of the revolution arc. so close. bear with me
> 
> this chapter brought to you by teddy hyde’s [smoke you out](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9LdJz4CK7IY). yall know what’s coming. 
> 
> _hey. hey. dream time :)_

Ranboo tries not to be too jumpy as Eret leads them underground. Nothing feels right. He doesn’t recognize this tunnel, he imagines he would have  _ some  _ semblance of memory of a vault deep underground, even after the first few rounds of explosives. The others evidently don’t care for his misgivings, excitedly bounding ahead through the cramped tunnel. 

“Seriously though, what do you mean you’ve got a ‘secret weapon?’” Tommy asks. Ranboo nods along, even if no one can see it from his spot at the end of the line. 

“I’ve been grinding for equipment,” Eret explains. “I’ve been grinding for materials. Here, this way. I’m excited to show you.”

“L’Manburg strong,” Wilbur says, a smile clear in his voice and tipping his hat forward. 

“L’Manburg strong!” Fundy repeats excitedly as he hurries ahead.

Ranboo lingers in the doorway as the tunnel gives way to blackstone. The sign in the middle reads  _ The Final Control Room.  _ The revolutionaries go running inside with little regard for safety. They trust too easily, Ranboo thinks blithely.

There’s anticipation in the air, now. Not something electric, not something he fully recognizes. It reminds him of the quiet vibrancy that thrums from redstone contraptions.

Confusion bleeds through as they throw chest lids open. Wilbur looks up. “There’s nothing in the chests–”

Tommy stumbles forward, tripping over a wooden fixture jutting from the center of the floor. Eret brings his foot down on the wood button. “Sorry, boys.”

Tubbo looks back, past Eret to meet Ranboo’s eyes. He’s trapped, lost in his gaze.

It comes to him.  _ Redstone. _

The stone slabs in the wall pull back and dark Netherite-clad figures come out swinging. 

_ “What?” _

_ “No!” _

_ “A traitor!” _

_ “Get out, get out, get out–” _

“ _ Down  _ with the revolution,” Eret’s voice cuts clearly through the noise. “It was never meant to be.”

Ranboo stumbles backward as everyone in front of him gets cleaved through. Whatever false upper hand they thought they possessed has been shattered against the dark stone bricks along the cloud of strength particles rolling forward. He knocks his shoulder on the sharp frame of the tunnel entrance, tripping backward into the corridor.

There isn’t a necessary push to use his magic this time. Gasping for air, it comes to him in the same breath, throttling him up from the earth and above ground. 

No, no, not like this. He can’t let it happen like this. He yanks back this time, wringing whatever he can from his full sense of self but there isn’t enough. It pushes back against him, shoves him down to keel over with the force of his breathing. He’s strained, his hearts pound out of sync, and he can’t do  _ anything. _

He bites back tears best he can because his hands shake too much to wipe at the burning sensation streaking down his face. He tries to stand back up, or regain his balance well enough to shamble back to L’Manburg, but all he can manage is a stumble before his knees lock and he falls back into the grass. 

C’mon, no. Not now. Any time but now, he needs to get up, he needs to move. When he tries to look up, tries to get any bearing on his surroundings, but his eyes are watery and he can’t focus on anything past the abstract blurs of green. He squints up at the sun above, watching the way the shadows fall.

A breeze blows past, flying through his hair as he lies prone with a heavy weight in his gut. It’s all he has. He rolls back on the grass and leans into the rush of fresh air to clear his head. 

In.

Out.

Slowly, his breathing evens out. He tries to get up again. His arms shake, but he’s strong enough to rise this time with only a slight stumble. He’s vertical. That’s an improvement. He leans against the tree, this time really getting a bearing of his surroundings. Forest, river. Distantly, he can see the silhouettes of Punz’s towers. West of L’Manburg, probably. Okay. He can work with that. 

Ranboo starts moving slowly, slowly navigates the spaces between trees to lean on. Eventually, there’s a break in the tree line and a sharp descent down. At the bottom, he can see the dark outline of L’Manburg’s walls.

He stiffens, blinking down the hill at the collection of figures gathered at the gate. The motley assortment of armor gives away the L’Manburg side as they stare down the glowing shadows of Dream’s men in Netherite. 

No. No, no, no, Ranboo doesn’t know how much life is left in them, but they can’t die here, they can’t die like this. 

He takes off running downhill, forgoing any attempts at subtlety to reach them as quickly as he can. He holds up his hands in surrender as he dodges between trees and races up to the edge of L’Manburg territory. Everyone turns to him and he resists a shudder at the force of their gazes.

“Shit,  _ Ranboo,”  _ Tubbo comes running up to him, disregarding the line of armored men drawing their weapons at the sudden motion. “What happened? You didn’t respawn at the van, and…”

Ranboo shakes his head, trying to ground himself in the present and slough off the anxiety. Everyone’s alive, if a little battered now. Respawning can only do so much, sometimes. He wants to reach out but he catches himself, instead crossing his arms just to do something with his hands. He does a brief headcount. Tubbo, Tommy and Fundy behind him– Wait. “Wh… Where’s WIlbur? Is he..?”

“He’s talking to Dream,” Tubbo says. “Negotiating.”

Tommy trots up next to him, bristling. “Where did you go?! You just left us to  _ die.” _

Ranboo looks uneasily at Eret and the battalion of sharper things beside him. “I didn’t mean to! I– I teleported out, but I  _ swear _ it wasn’t intentional, I just panicked, and–”

Tubbo comes up beside him, patting Ranboo’s arm. “Don’t fight,” he nods at Dream’s men outside the wall. Tommy doesn’t look happy, but, at the reminder, keeps his mouth shut. Tubbo’s touch lingers and he squeezes his shoulder. Ranboo smiles weakly at him, pulling back as he notices two more people approaching.

Wilbur and Dream come walking over the other side of the hill. Wilbur looks grim, but resolute, and Dream…

Ranboo feels the distant echoes of electricity rattle in his chest as his hair stands on end. He backs up slowly, falling in line beside Tubbo and Fundy. His hearts race, the waves of anxiety resurfacing tenfold as emotion swells within him. 

Dream’s gaze lands on Ranboo. He tries unsuccessfully not to flinch.

“Wait a second. Wait– who are you?” Dream frowns. “I don't remember adding you to the server.”

Wilbur doesn't skip a beat. “Oh, yeah, that’s one of ours. I whitelisted him on L’Manburg.”

“I…  _ what?”  _ He steps back, making a frustrated noise. “That is literally not how that works!”

Ranboo shrinks, carefully moving backward to meet Tubbo’s familiar weight. Maybe if he’s quiet, Dream will just forget he’s here. 

But then Dream pulls out his communicator. He’s–  _ he’s going to get rid of Ranboo _ .

_ He can’t let that happen.  _

He lunges forward, digging his claws into Dream’s hand to send it flying. The others react immediately, but Wilbur had been too focused on reining in Tommy to dedicate too much thought on a fail-safe for Ranboo. The moment of hesitation Tubbo has before yanking him back is enough, and the small device skids across the wooden path. 

One of the Netherite-clad figures shoots a crossbow bolt in their direction, piercing his sleeve but only barely scathing his skin, and battle erupts. He twists out of Tubbo’s hold, much easier now that there are bigger distractions, and goes running after it. 

Dream’s quicker, but he can compensate. Ranboo wrestles it out of Dream’s grasp and he doesn’t hesitate in digging the sharp part of his axeblade into Ranboo’s shoulder to force him back. The pain stings, his green blood clotting immediately in the open air, curdling and releasing a foul stench. Dream jerks back, slicing the axe through Ranboo’s tendons as he pulls it back with him. 

Ranboo hisses in pain but still goes after him. He claws his way forward, barely able to scratch at Dream before getting kicked away with a sharp boot to the gut. This time, he isn’t sure if he can get back up. His chest hurts (ribs are probably bruised, he thinks distantly), his shoulder is bleeding out, but he  _ can’t let Dream do this _ , this is his  _ only _ shot, if he– 

“I don’t know who you are, but,” Dream punches in a button, his sharp smile visible just under the mask. “Bye!”

Ranboo tenses, expecting the familiar wave of disconnect as he’s flung from the world, but it doesn’t come. Nothing comes.

“ _ Bye,” _ Dream bites out again, slamming his hand on the button once more.

Nothing comes. 

They come to the same realization at the same time. Dream shifts his grip on the axe, lunging forward as Ranboo rolls back. There's one other way to get Ranboo off this server, and he isn't going to go quietly. 

He bounds back behind the L’Manburg line of defense, banking on the some weak wall of defense it still provides while Dream runs hot on his tail. 

“We won’t cave,” Wilbur shouts, stepping between them. “Dream only wants our surrender. His venomous threats are short-lasting, and his intent foul. Men, stand with me when I say  _ we will not break. _ Independence or death, if we don’t get our revolution, then we want nothing. We would rather die than– than give into and join your SMP. _ ” _

_“Fine,_ then,” Dream barks back, pulling out his flint and steel and holding up his shield. “Let’s stop playing.”

The TNT lights. 

_ The TNT lights.  _

Even without any prior knowledge, it’s not a surprise when the small scale explosion surges into a larger chain reaction as the explosives claw their way through the fractured earth. The L’Manburgians go diving for the canal immediately, afforded the watery boundary quieting the force of the explosion. Ranboo can’t follow their lead, not without some protection. He jumps backward, searching the perimeter desperately for somewhere to hide. 

As the ground beneath the van heaves backward from heavy impact after impact, Ranboo spots a dark pillar of stone reaching up for sanctity. That’ll work, he can– 

The dirt splits and the aftershock of the next wave of explosives rend their way over Ranboo’s shoulder. He leans into the pain for just a moment, banking on the harrowing discomfort for enough power to make the leap under the van. 

The obsidian is unnaturally cold, even with the heat of the sun and incendiaries, but it’s firm and allows Ranboo to catch his breath as the map of destruction spiderwebs around him. He pulls his knees to his chest and tries to be as small as possible against the crevices in the stone. His shoulder throbs, the heat reaches for it, the dust brushes over the slash in his jacket and coats the inside. 

Dust and precipitate burn down his throat, but he has to choke back coughs to stop from breathing  _ more _ in. He holds his sleeve over his face and screws his eyes shut until the tremors stop. When he blinks his eyes back open, he squints up at the ruined panels of the van. Barely holding together. Still standing. 

His breath shudders in his chest but it’s a light thing. 

Ranboo survived. 

The underbelly’s seared wooden paneling is easily pushed aside as he pulls himself through the flooring. His ears ring too loudly to parse any other sound around, so he prays that Dream and his envoy aren’t pursuing deeper into their territory yet while he checks to see what’s survived, flipping open the lids of any chests that hadn’t burst to pieces in the explosion. 

He hears yelling, distantly. Voices unclear, he starts to rummage faster. Potions, materials, a whole lot of  _ junk _ , mostly, but he knows there was something. There had to be, right? Earlier, he was here for a reason, he was assigned to the van to protect something, he’s pretty sure. 

A frustrated noise bubbles in his throat and he shoves everything back. It’s not right. It’s not  _ here _ , he knows  _ that _ much. He glances up to the wall of the van and something like recognition pangs. 

An item frame is blown in half, and on the crevices of the floor he spots it. A  _ book _ , haphazardly clinging to the wooden floor with one length of cover holding on and the rest of the pages swinging into the abyss. He lunges downward, yanking it back and clutching it to his chest. Yeah. Yeah, he remembers now. L’Manburg’s Declaration of Independance. 

He flips open the cover and, yeah, he recognizes the straight and blocky print of Wilbur’s handwriting. Great.

The pain in his shoulder thrums, diggin across his back. He stumbles, almost trips downwards into the gaping mouth beneath, but barely catches himself on the counter. Even that starts to give, and Ranboo rapidly realizes that even though the van is intact  _ now,  _ the ground beneath him definitely isn’t, and it sure won’t be able to balance on the thin obsidian pillar alone. 

The ground teeters unevenly. He scrambles to the stronger side and presses against the wall. The broken windows behind him only show depths of water pouring down and around him. He’s trapped, with no way to get out. Desperately, he pushes over the closest chest to investigate for any armor to lessen the burns, but nothing but blaze rods come rolling out. His shoulder still aches, he probably still needs to clean the wound. 

Well. If it comes to it, he can figure out if freshwater cauterization is a thing. 

Suddenly, there are hands on his back, tugging him backward. He whips around, teeth bared, but catches himself when he recognizes Tubbo. He shakes his head and tries to ignore the ringing in his ears to get a handle of the faint imprints of speech underneath as Tubbo mouths something. 

“–boo, hey, hey, we didn't see you– ” His mouth moves too fast to catch anything, “–the river, and–”

Tommy shoves him to the side, voice harsh and low enough to cut through the noise. “Independance– Ranboo, do you have–”

He presses the book into his hands, tries to speak but the sound catches in his throat and sends him into a coughing fit as his insides burn. Right, right, smoke damage. He slowly stands straight again, clutching his chest. The ringing in his ears, at least, has dulled to a manageable degree. 

“Here, here, here. Water, we need to go,  _ now, _ ” Tubbo snaps up a water bottle from the counter and shoves it into Ranboo’s hands, clear and undiluted of potion compounds. Ranboo blinks down at it, confusedly. Definitely would fuck up his insides even more. 

Wilbur and Fundy come running behind him, the weight of them all combined causing the van to sway unevenly again. 

“The Declaration– did you, I mean, is it–”

Tommy holds it up, passing it to Wilbur without hesitation. The desperate light in his eyes waives slightly, the tension in his shoulder loosens just a touch. 

Tommy hops down, the weight dispersing and sending the entire structure teetering, and kneels next to a hole in the ground, where the water funnels out of the shallow crater in a dark stream. “Tubbo and I, we have a tunnel. Worst case scenario, right? I just– had a feeling, y’know? And–”

Wilbur jumps down, relying on the water to break his fall as he lands beside Tommy. “Good thinking. C’mon, we need to go.”

Fundy nods, dropping into the stream alongside him and following both of them down the hole.

Tubbo turns to him. “Can you go through? It’s– it’s relatively shallow?”

He nods slowly. It’ll be a ride, at least. But it’ll just be for less than a moment. He’ll survive. 

Tubbo hesitates, lingering until the van settles unevenly again before plunging himself under. 

Ranboo breathes.

In. 

Out.

He holds his nose and drops through the opening. 

The burning isn’t nearly as bad this time. It’s more of an itch, wetting his clothes thoroughly and clinging to his arms. Tubbo was right; the length of water itself was quick and shallow. He’s in and out in less than a breath, stumbling out of the stream. Doesn’t stop the coughs wracking his body, though, and he’s forced to hunch over by the tunnel entrance until the shaking wanes enough to regain some semblance of balance. 

Tubbo grabs his hand in his own and pulls him running down the tunnel. Ranboo doesn’t resist his lead, even when he has to stave off the growing temptation to stop and cough until he’s spat up the choking, sandpapery feeling.

They come to a stop in a small blackstone room with tunnels branching out every which direction. They’re not even all lit up either, causing Ranboo to edge further on restlessness at the thought of an unlucky horde of mobs coming shambling out of the darkness. 

The very least, he counts his blessings that he’s not here alone. 

Tubbo snaps him out of his thoughts. “Are you okay? You– Oh. You were caught up in the explosion.”

Ranboo coughs again, pounding a hand to his chest and nodding wildly with the motion. He pulls out the glass bottle from earlier and holds it out for Tubbo to take.

“Oh. The water…” He flushes, laughing awkwardly. “You… can’t drink that, can you?”

He quickly shakes his head with force. Definitely can’t do more water. 

Fundy finally speaks up, opening his coat and handing over a pink vial. “Here, healing pot.”

Wilbur looks up. “One of our last?”

Fundy hesitates, but after a moment, goes, “...The last.”

Ranboo hesitates, looking down to Wilbur for confirmation. He waves a hand. “Just– take it. We won’t have much use for it soon, I suppose.”

He still isn’t sure, only taking the potion after Fundy presses it into his hands. Even then, he’s still indecisive until Tubbo brushes his shoulder. 

“We need to surface soon,” Wilbur says. “And Dream’s given us our ultimatum.” 

“Wilbur?” Tommy looks up at him, meets his gaze squarely. 

Wilbur dips his head. “It’s L’Manburg’s end. Come with me, alright?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I can do that.”

The rest of them linger in silence as they trudge their way back to the surface. 

. . .

Negotiations are quick, this time around. When Wilbur returns, his face is desolate, torn through and through with an emotion Ranboo scarcely recognizes. Resolve, in the face of tragedy. 

Ranboo stiffens as the others go running up to meet him. Dream watches coldly from a distance as they gather around. 

“We have our terms of surrender,” he tells them tiredly.

Tommy turns around, standing on the foot of his toes to edge over the crowd and seek out Dream’s gaze. “We fought well, right?”

Dream tilts his head at them, the eerie smile only lending to his amused voice. “I, uh. For your conditions, I suppose you fought well.”

“Dream, don’t say that to our faces. C’mon.”

Dream shrugs. “You were just unequipped. Skill wise and inventory wise–”

“You  _ motherfucker,”  _ Tommy  _ fumes. _

Oh no.

Dream can barely get out another syllable before the heat picks up. “Ah–” 

“You egotistical son of a bitch– you self-obsessed  _ green bastard.  _ Why don’t we– why don’t we have a one-vs-one. Right here, right now,” Tommy says passionately, the words stumbling unevenly out of his mouth as he forges forward. “A duel for L’Manburg’s independence. You’ve blown up all of our shit, Dream. So what do you have to lose, right? Let’s do it. In front of everyone. I don’t  _ care–” _

Wilbur presses his hand to Tommy’s shoulder. “..What was the one thing I asked, Tommy?”

He turns to him. “You know I’ve gotta do this.”

“The  _ one thing–” _

Dream’s voice cuts through Ranboo’s chest with as much impact as the axe through the shoulder. “What’re the details?”

Everyone freezes.

Tommy turns to him triumphantly. “Half a heart bow-duel. Ten paces.”

Dream laughs. “Ten paces?”

Tubbo reaches over Ranboo’s hand on his quill, wordlessly asking permission before Ranboo hands it over. Silently, he scribbles in the margins:  _ Oh god _

Ranboo can’t help but agree. 

“How else?” Tommy asks.

“If you win, you can have independence,” All of L’Manburg turns excitedly to each other, but Ranboo can’t understand the sentiment as Dream continues. “If you  _ lose,  _ you don’t gain independence  _ and  _ I get Mellohi.”

That has Ranboo looking up sharply, another heavy wave of anxiety flooding over him. But Dream’s eyes are fixed on Tommy alone.

Everyone watches, breathless. 

Tommy mutters something unintelligible, looking up to meet his gaze. Something sets the spark alight, a rejuvenated blaze of fury burning under his skin. He nods, all incandescent resolve. “Deal.”

Dream tilts his head, face unreadable under the mask, but he sounds amused. He sounds satisfied. “Okay.”

“... It’s sundown,” Wilbur speaks up finally. “Poison up.”

Tommy turns to them. “Does anyone have a bow? I have,” he pats down his pockets. “Literally nothing.”

Ranboo could almost be amused in any other circumstances, because that’s just too close to the Tommy he knows. But he’s weaponless, armorless, and without any means to help him.

Wilbur looks up to Dream’s side. “Do any of you have a bow? George?”

The face Ranboo doesn’t recognize, in the middle of the pack, pulls up their goggles, smirking half-amused. “Uhh, not one you can have.”

Wilbur turns away, face drawn in a hard line as he runs his hands over the seams of his coat. “Do we have any string left? Won’t be master-grade, but we can make something quick if we can find some sticks too.”

Ranboo shakes his head and Tubbo looks down. Fundy steps up, unearthing a bow from the depths of his inventory. 

He steps up and pats the shoulder of Tommy’s scuffed-up uniform. “Look, I’m not fully supporting your decisions,  _ but,”  _ he hands over their last hope. “Good luck.”

Tommy nods. “Thank you. Wilbur… can we talk alone for a minute?”

“Yeah,” Wilbur wraps a hand around his shoulder. “Yeah. Let’s go get some fresh air.”

Tubbo pulls back, turning away. “Let’s get ready. We need to find a spot.”

“Ah. Uh, okay,” Ranboo rasps, swallowing down the swell of soreness in his throat. It’s improved, but not complete working order yet.

He follows him up the hill, almost tripping over Tubbo when he suddenly stops to pull Ranboo down when they’re just out of sight of the others. 

“Ranboo,” Tubbo says under his breath, “How did you know, with Eret? Why didn’t…” he shakes his head. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you, I know it wasn’t your fault. But  _ how?” _

“I…” Ranboo coughs again, properly clearing the airway even as his throat itches, and keeps walking up. “It’s complicated. I don't think I can tell you.”

Tubbo follows, glancing back at the path below, where Dream loops his bow over his shoulder and sorts through potions. “... do you know if Tommy wins?”

He stops at the crest of the hill. “I can’t tell you.”

“So you know?” There’s no bitterness to it, just a lingering exhaustion. Ranboo can sympathize. It’s been a long day.

He lays back on the grass and screws his eyes shut. “I have a vague idea.” 

And in the burdensome silence, he isn’t sure if that’s better or worse. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i prewrite most of my notes just so i can make sure i have all the shit i want to in line so for fun, here's the previous one: every single ranboo lore stream we get i’m like is it today? am i marking cp as canon divergence today? mr ranboo my beloved, when are our two interpretations of c!ranboo gonna hit that asymptotic relationship?? i know it’s coming. pls king
> 
> here's where we're at now: AHH UH. KARL N TALES. I KNEW I WAS GONNA DIVERGE HARD BUT DIDNT EXPECT IT TO BE THIS SOON. HELLO. HI. 
> 
> (2/28 little bit of a post-mortem edit here: parts of the lore Have been incorporated? just bc the in-between is so sexy and it was a pretty painless transition. fuck you still karl. this was my turf first smh)


	5. it's about to lose me too

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for another panic room scene buuut it’s getting worse. if that’s something you’re not super into, it IS how the chap ends but i’ll have a brief description in the end notes :>

Ranboo holds his breath.

He doesn’t always have faith in Tommy, necessarily, but there’s a prevailing trust in his skills. Tommy is charismatic and a brilliant fighter. He can bring anything back with enough resolve, enough fire to bite it down.

Tommy takes a shot the second Wilbur counts to zero. Misfire.

Dream’s bow is drawn and firing in the same breath. Misfire.

Tommy ducks under the bridge, taking a cheap shot as he pivots. Misfire.

_ Dream–  _

Dream’s arrow lands true.

Ranboo stiffens, even as Tubbo jumps up and goes racing down the hill to get to him. Time passes quickly, slowly, not at all. Suddenly, he feels chillingly detached from everything around him, even as his pulse picks up and he starts to sweat. 

How?  _ How? _ Ranboo knows that Tommy was only on one life when they met, but why was that the case? Has he messed up, here? L’Manburg  _ had _ independence before the crater, before Schlatt, didn’t it? Has he moved too quickly? Was trying to warn them about Eret start a cascading effect? Is he meant to die again? Can Ranboo  _ avoid _ that? Did– 

Did Ranboo kill him?

Tommy reappears, arm slung over Tubbo’s shoulder to be able to stand at all. 

“Dream,” he says, and he just sounds tired. “Can we speak alone?”

Ranboo darkens, leaning into his magic and biting down on the inside of his cheek. This time it isn’t seamless, it isn’t the slick motion between one position and the next. He forces himself through the cracks, wedges himself between the dimensions.

The pressure is exhausting, digging into his chest and he comes out nearly shaking from overexertion.

“ _ No _ .”

Everyone stops. Both the men under Dream’s jurisdiction and his own allies all turn to him. His tail lashes out as he stands between Tommy and tragedy. 

“Ranboo,” Tommy frowns. “Step back–”

Ranboo turns to Dream, a small flicker of delight reaching him as he watches the man’s hand tighten on his weapons as they make eye contact. “ _ We’ll _ speak alone.”

Dream leans back, assessing. “You’re not with them?”

Ranboo hisses, a rumbling burning in the back of his throat. “I can give you an offer you can’t refuse. Something no one else can give you.”

“An offer I can’t refuse, hm?”

He glances back. Wilbur watches him, eyes cloudy and emotion indistinct. Tommy is fuming, trying to drag himself forward but still recovering from his death. Fundy pointedly looks away, now, with resignation. Tubbo–

Tubbo knows.

“Okay,” Dream says finally. “I’ll bite. You can’t bring any weapons or armor, though.”

Ranboo grins blithely, tries to bite down the shaking in his voice. “This here is all I have.”

“Good,” he nods them forward. “Let’s go.”

Ranboo follows quietly after him, keeping his eyes trained on the ground under the deafening, uneven beats. Dream escorts him far enough to definitely not be overheard, but close enough that they’re within eye distance of the others. 

He can tell that part is meant to be a lazy comfort for Ranboo’s safety (lack thereof), because he knows Dream is ready this time if Ranboo tries anything. It doesn’t matter though, he’s too drained to even consider lunging for him after everything. 

When he’s satisfied with their position he stops. “So. Who are you?”

A crest of a hill, forests on the southwest, but enough plains before the trees sprout up to be able to keep an eye on Ranboo if he tried to bolt and exposed enough for a sniper to be able to get a shot in. 

Ranboo breathes. 

“Nothing, really. I didn’t even…” he shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. But I’ll be honest. For what you want to accomplish, establishing L’Manburg is an easy start.”

Dream cocks his head. “What do you mean ‘what I want to accomplish?’”

Breathe. 

“Maintaining control. Through whatever means necessary.”

“Hm,” Dream hums. “Why do you think that?”

Ranboo doesn’t like this. He wishes he could go back, suddenly, and not be trapped in this one-on-one confrontation. Maybe he could’ve recovered the disc thing. But.  _ But… _

“You’re alone,” he says finally, “You’ve been the admin for this server for centuries. Settlements, civilizations, have come and gone while you’ve watched over this place. You opened the borders to your friends, first, then got swept up in the conflict. I  _ know _ where you’ve been. What you’ve done.”  _ What you will do, _ Ranboo doesn’t say.

Dream’s quiet for a long moment. “...so you know Karl?”

Ranboo leans forward, the depths of anxiety washing away for deeper memories to resurface. He focuses on what he has left of Techno and pulls back his lips in a sharp grin. “I know things even Karl doesn’t.”

“Oh?”

“If you let L’Manburg be,” Ranboo says carefully. “It will devastate every last citizen. A storm is coming in.”

Dream tilts his head curiously. “Tommy’s discs?”

“Something worse.” You. Schlatt too, a vague, distant evil with too much foreboding presence to mean any good. Techno’s penchant for cataclysm, Wilbur’s descent. “If you listen to me, you won’t even need to worry about discs ever again,” Ranboo says, and inside he is on his knees  _ begging _ Dream will take the bait, that his desperation isn’t bleeding through.

Dream leans back. “These are a lot of hypotheticals. I want hard proof.”

The details are slippery here. He can’t give straight numbers, but he can play Dream’s game. Play it vague.

“In a few weeks, Karl will join the server. For the first time, in his perspective. Let independence linger in stasis for that long. See if I’m right.”

“They won’t be happy about that.”

“They don’t need to be,” Ranboo bites out. “There is more to this than  _ independence.” _

Dream hums. “Really now?”

He shakes his head. “And you never would have acknowledged L’Manburg as a country anyway.”

He can’t see Dream smile from under the mask, but he doesn’t need to. “They don’t know that.”

Ranboo tenses. “Wilbur will.”

“But Tommy won’t. And he’s always been one to hold a grudge, hm?” Grim and wicked, Ranboo imagines the face under the mask to be. He brushes back his hood and turns away. “See you in a few weeks. Let’s see if Karl shows.”

Ranboo watches his back as he goes, standing unmoving until Dream vanishes back into the ranks of his own men. He doesn’t glance back once.

Ranboo slowly trudges after him, trying to shoulder the heaviness on his back bearing down on him.

“Ranboo?” someone calls. Ranboo can’t distinguish the voice anymore. The high tempers off, his pulse slows in his ears.

He’s so tired.

“I don’t understand. What did Ranboo offer you?” Fundy’s tail swishes back behind him as he’s tensed up. There’s a lingering fear in them all, something Ranboo can’t articulate for them.

Dream looks at him expectantly, the gazes of the others following. Ranboo tries to shrink away under his coat. The silence churns uncomfortably around them, but Ranboo doesn’t budge. He can’t tell them. It’s already–

Maybe telling Dream was a mistake, even in vague half-truths and an approximate distance. But before the pain in his chest crashed down, there was a single fleeting moment of lightness. To vie at transparency, in its own indeterminate form. 

He’s had a long day. Ranboo’s sick of any attempts at emotional vulnerability, sick of being pushed away, sick of putting himself forward to be cast aside. No one listens, tragedy is inevitable. So if this is what it takes, so be it. 

“Ranboo,” Tubbo calls, running up to his side despite Tommy’s vocal protests. “Hey, are you okay?”

“Fine. Fine, I think,” he lies. He wants to lay down. He wants to be alone, without Dream’s voice cutting in. But he’s stuck in L’Manburg, with all these eyes on him, searching for a moment of weakness. 

Wilbur comes up next, supporting a limping Tommy as they navigate forward in a pair. 

“What was your play?” he asks. 

Ranboo shudders (or is that just shaking, at this point? Nothing more than raw nerves). “I don’t want to talk about it. Or think about it. Or… anything.”

“So it worked?” Fundy tugs on the buttons of his cuffed sleeve. 

Ranboo leans back on the heels of his feet, as much distance as he can allow without outright turning away. “…It will.”

The mood drops, into something heavy with deadly finality to it. Everyone’s expression darkens, save for Wilbur’s safe neutrality as he processes those words.

Tommy is first to speak up, scoffing. “Fuck you. We could’ve avoided this shit if you had just let me hand off the discs. Fuck.  _ Fuck.” _

Ranboo swallows and glances up to Wilbur instead of handing over a concrete response. “You’ll gain independence. Without bloodshed. In a few weeks, at least.”

“What did you give him?” Wilbur asks, all barely concealed hunger, with eyes  _ piercing _ as he inspects him for any giveaways. 

He thinks that if he stays for even a moment longer, his mind will buckle from the anxiety. And that Wilbur will dig the knife through his heart until he gets a satisfactory answer. 

“I need to go,” Ranboo mutters, rolling up the sleeves of his fraying coat and turning to go before anyone can fight it. “I’ll… I just need some time.”

Tubbo tugs on his sleeve. “Ranboo,  _ hey–” _

He shrugs him off and heads for the woods. 

His legs are heavy lead weights protesting already as he drags himself backward, turns towards the forest. It takes a minute, but once he picks up a rhythm he can push forward for just long enough to take off uphill. Dodging between trees and his chest heaving violently as he fights for breath, he runs until he's far enough away to give in to the burning in his chest and collapse into the dirt. 

He kicks up dust as he pulls himself back up, legs straining to keep up the weight of the world on his shoulders. His shoulder’s still bothering him, even after the healing potion. It still isn’t taking kindly to harsh movements. 

He lingers, straining to hear any giveaways. If he concentrates, he can hear the distant rustle of motion far off. He curses quietly to himself, buttoning his coat against his chest and feeling for his journal but–

He realizes the weight of his memory book isn’t there. 

His mind flies, ramping up to overdrive as he tries to smother the rising panic. 

The van? No, no. Then it would be gone. Lost to the river, reduced to ashes, or buried deep under the explosive aftershocks. He– he tripped. In the final control room. He must’ve. Now he has to go back, quick. He needs to write down everything that’s happened before it slips. 

He backs away under the shade of the trees to gather his bearings. He recognizes this field vaguely, he thinks. He can… backtrack, he figures. And he can’t return to L’Manberg at the moment. 

Well, Dream and his men had to have gotten in the Final Control Room through a different route, right? If he can pinpoint approximately  _ how _ , he can find his book. He looks around. He recognizes his surroundings, vaguely, from when he went sprinting back from the tomb after the massacre. He just needs to find an opening. There has to be another opening, right? There’s… there’s no way his book is lost. Everything is fine, everything  _ will _ be fine. He just needs to be smart approaching this. Look for inconsistency, whatever stands out. 

That doesn’t mean much, when the trees blur into dark greens and browns in the bright light. He presses his back to the bark as he rubs at his eyes. Something pushes back, sharp and uncomfortable as it catches on his collar. He jumps forward, hissing with claws drawn, but– 

There’s a notch in the wood, unevenly cut, like it was done in a hurry. He traces a finger over the unblemished oak beneath. Recent, too. 

He turns around, looking past it. His gaze lands on another slash further back. The cut is thin, almost unnoticeable, but it’s undeniably  _ there _ . He jogs up to it, shoving down the weariness in his chest and the pulsing pain from his shoulder. Even further, there’s another mark in the tree behind. 

It’s suspicious, but it’s the only lead he has. 

He goes after the trail. 

The marks get thinner the further he follows, more and more subtle until he’s stumbling down a riverbed because there’s a papercut in the sapling around the bend. 

The tree is odd. Crooked and out of place, the leaves are trimmed back enough to leave not much besides a vertical log and a few half-hearted stems vying for sunlight. Ranboo tentatively walks up to it, claws scratching at the bark as he traces circles on the wood. At its base, he notices an odd divot in the ground. He kicks the grass and dirt aside, boot catching on the wooden frame of a trapdoor underneath. 

Victory. 

He wrenches it open and drops inside.

The tunnel ceiling is low. He has to keep his head ducked down as he moves quickly forward. The torches burn a brilliant blue, the artificial light searing into his eyes the way natural firelight can’t. The natural stone wall gives as he makes his way through, opening to a granite deposit. The blue light keeps it a shade too close to purple for his liking. He screws his eyes shut and runs faster with his fingers tracing along the wall. 

He almost trips over a sign propped up in the middle of the hallway, stumbling over himself as he squints an eye open in the darkness. He can’t pause for long enough to read it, the shadowy claws of obsidian ends are creeping closer. 

He’ll– 

He needs to– 

He’s  _ fine.  _

He kicks the sign aside and runs faster down the hall. The ceiling droops lower still, as effort drops for speed and the clear-cut walls taper off into rough approximations he can barely move through. There aren’t any torches anymore, he’s squinting into the darkness until he sees light up ahead. 

_ Warm _ light, from natural-born fire and lanterns. He throws himself at the opening, relishing in the sharp corners carefully cut to acquit redstone lines and pistons.

Ranboo falters, almost expecting the shadows of Dream’s men to come up behind him. But there is no one.

The lantern light burns low. The stage is set, the players have moved on. 

He traces the curves in the blackstone bricks as he timidly steps inside, all his courage draining when faced in this tomb buried deep underground. He breathes in measured beats even as his pulse picks up.

Any of the armor left in the room has been picked over, leaving only the dulled, enchanted shining of diamond materials just about broken kicked to the side.

There, sitting in the middle of the room, untarnished–

The book.

His book. 

That can’t– that can’t be good. Who saw it? Who left it for him? 

He rips open the cover, not caring for the way his claws tear at the paper, cycling through everything he thinks he knows. Names, who to trust, who he can’t. Then Blank. Blank.  _ Blank–  _

He comes back to on the middle, where there’s finally something to cling to. Before he can focus on the familiar script, a card falls from the pages. In clear, blocked out print, it reads:  _ DO NOT TRUST DREAM.  _

“You’re slipping again,” it says.

He startles backward, almost tripping over the chest as his back pounds against the wall. No, no, no– 

“You need to be better than this,” it sounds disinterested this time. It sounds bored.

Ranboo shoves further back, feeling the imperfections in the obsidian needle against his skin. Purple fluid drips down, rolling down his face in cool streams as it sears into his coat. “I’m trying to! I’m trying to be.”

“Hm. Not trying hard enough. It’d be easier for us if you just got over it. You need to figure yourself out. Remember.”

“There isn’t anything  _ to _ remember,” Ranboo bites out.

“You’ll learn better if you’d just admit to yourself that much. At least, now that your first books are long gone.”

He breathes. He’d been expecting this, right? This is what he knew would happen. He would be alone and the worst parts of his head would resurface. 

“I’m finally a part of you? Honored, truly.”

Ranboo hisses, even knowing he can’t physically lash out at the voice plaguing him.

“Long day, hm? We can cut this short. Just remember, right?”

“Would you stop?! Please! I’m sick of this. I didn’t do any of the crap you throw on me, okay? I– I…”

“You let them die,” Dream’s voice tells him. “You knew everything and you still let them die.”

“I tried!” Ranboo coughs out. “I did everything I could, I just–”

“You led them there.”

“Eret–  _ Eret  _ led them, I could only follow–”

“And they died for it! If you hadn’t faltered in the van? If you were  _ ready? _ ”

“They wouldn’t listen!”

“You didn’t  _ try.” _

“I–” His pulse races, the darkness wells within him. He can feel it simmering close to the flame, seconds from lashing out and thrashing free. He tries to speak, tries to talk back again, but only a deep rumbling rises from deep within him, ripping at his damaged throat and manifesting with streaked agony. He doesn’t want this, he doesn’t want any of this.

He doesn’t…

“I don’t want this,” he finally coughs out, giving into the way his shoulders hunch forward and his knees buckle. 

“It’s never been about what you want,” comes the sharp reply. “You can only play under someone else’s intent.”

“ _ Stop!”  _ He yells, the end of his tail batting painfully on the wall. His knees buckle beneath him and he slides down the wall, ignoring the painful scratching through his thin shirt. “Just– just… shut up! Please, gods, just leave me  _ alone _ .”

“You made a deal with Dream.”

He drops his head to his knees, pulls his arms over his ears but he can’t shut out the voice. 

“Now what will you do?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, so! ranboo makes it back into the final control room and finds his book laid out in the middle, untouched. he starts to hear dream’s voice again & has another shouting match with it over if it was _his_ fault that the final control room happened and L'manburg lost. he gets overwhelmed by his shitty week, breaking down while the voice taunts him
> 
> -
> 
> [leans into the mic] hey. _it’s gonna get worse before it gets better_
> 
> so!! FINALLY. FINALLY DONE WITH THE REVOLUTION. did NOT think it would take that long. actual development happens now, i promise. hmu with a kudos & comment if you enjoyed! i will see yall again soon hopefully!! <3


	6. tomorrow is another day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from run boy run by woodkid!

The first thing that registers when Ranboo wakes is a cold feeling down his back. Then the tingling feeling gives way to pain as the freezing numbness wanes. He jumps with realization, the snow around him crumpling and falling to the ground. It’s too bright, too. Where  _ is _ he?

There’s only snow as far as he can see. As he turns, he thinks  _ maybe _ the tundra distantly breaks into sand and frozen ocean. At his back, there’s only snowy forest. One of these directions is more welcoming, he decides, so he keeps his head down and muddles towards the coast. 

The ache in his shoulder had been blessedly numbed by the chill, and now that he's out of his cocoon of snow, the ache is flaring up again. He shakes out his arm out of habit, but that only intensifies the shot of pain he feels. He almost loses his footing, and barely fumbles into catching himself. 

Great. Right.

He needs to get back to familiar territory. 

Ranboo flips open his memory book, taking out the card marking his place. 

Friends (Tommy, Tubbo), acquaintances (Wilbur, Fundy, and a name scratched out), who to avoid (Dream). Then two names tagging along at the top of the list, under ‘friends’, but he doesn't recognize them. He can't attach them to any face. 

He turns the page.

_ We won. Sorta. _

_ Dream and Tommy fought for independence but Tommy lost. Dream wanted his disc but I stopped him because I told him I had something he’d want more. _

_ He knows now. Parts of it. DO NOT TELL HIM ANY MORE _

_ Wilbur and the others are mad at me because I won’t tell them. Tommy especially. I don’t blame him, or any of them. They’ve all lost lives for nothing now.  _

~~_ I tried–  _ ~~

~~_ I want to–  _ ~~

_ I think I screwed up. I’ve been avoiding L’Manburg if I can. I think it's for the best. I warned Tubbo about Eret and it still wasn't enough. ~~I let them d~~ _

_ None of them have treated me the same since Eret, anyway. I think they're happier without me for a headache.  _

Ranboo rereads the part in the middle.

_ He knows now. Parts of it. DO NOT TELL HIM ANY MORE _

The letters are indented into the paper, evidence that a pen dug into the page with intensity. But he doesn’t remember what he told Dream. 

He doesn’t  _ remember. _

He puts the card back in, covering the page. That’s easier to look at, right now. It’s creased around the edges, the text unmistakable. 

_ DO NOT TRUST DREAM. _

There’s… if Dream had left it, wouldn’t he have been more subtle? Unless that’s what he wants Ranboo to believe. He can guess Ranboo would be more inclined to trust someone who  _ doesn't  _ trust Dream.

And the straight print only makes it harder. He can't identify the writer with the painstakingly even strokes. He just knows that whoever left it  _ knows,  _ knows he isn’t from here, knows his goals. Maybe even knows more than him.

It’s not a good thought. 

He stops on the sandy beach that divides the tundra proper from the frozen ocean. He looks over at the hill expectantly, catching himself in the motion as he realizes nothing is there. His chest is tight, he feels a pull toward the depths of the bay. He shakes it off, gritting his teeth when his shoulder only gives him  _ more _ trouble. 

He doesn’t know what he was looking for. The sun is high in the sky, too close to noon to get a read on the time. He can get wood for a boat maybe, but he doesn’t know the direction he needs to go. There’s nothing but water as far as the horizon goes. That isn’t a comforting thought. 

But if he got here, there has to be a way back, right? 

…Does he want to go back yet?

He tightens his coat over his shoulders. Maybe he’ll stay here for a little bit. At least until he’s sure on the way home. He turns away from the ocean, plodding back into the snow. Distantly he thinks he sees light reflecting further out. Light’s good. That’s a direction. He starts making his way there. 

He starts moving, but before he can get too far, his gaze lands on obsidian claws rising from the top of the hill. He freezes. No, no. Is someone here? It takes a moment for ease of motion to trickle slowly back to his limbs. He moves forward skittishly, watching for an obvious movement that signals hostility. 

Instead of that, though, the glare hits his eye, light catching on golden metal. 

Oh. 

He loosens up, trotting to the obsidian frame. Just a ruined portal. He traces a hand over the weathered stone, almost frozen to the touch. There’s a chest at his foot too, he kicks it open and crouches down to investigate its contents. 

Golden tools, glimmering with enchantments, and something he gladly pockets to use for now. He still needs to go mining. There are some golden carrots too, making him realize with a jolt just how  _ hungry _ he is. He keeps two on hand and stores away the rest. They’re hard, long stale and probably frozen to the core, but they’re still magically filling. It’ll do for now. He crunches on the hard bits, grinding them down as he walks. 

He pulls out the gold sword, swinging the light weight as he walks. There aren’t any mobs in sight, but he’s missed the comforting weight of a weapon in his hands. This is good, he decides. This is good.

. . .

The light, it turns out, is a village.

Somewhere no one else had gotten to yet, evidently, with the way the villagers mill around unbothered. His presence might invite raids sooner or later, but for now, it’s calm. They give him and his gold sword odd looks as he passes, but leave him be. 

Ranboo stops in front of a farmer, mouth watering at the carefully maintained fields of potatoes behind. He holds out his palms carefully. “Trade?”

It makes a noise back, something of disgruntled anger passing through its gaze. Oh. Right. Payment. 

Ranboo does basic chores in exchange for emeralds from the others, cutting down wheat and picking up sticks. There’s a librarian too, he finds, as he eyes the books tucked away on the shelves. The enchantment books will help; once he has the iron for an anvil, he’ll just need to get enough diamonds for gear without worrying about an enchantment table. 

This is good. Great, actually. He’ll just dig open a mine and avoid everyone for a little bit. Once he has the obsidian, he’ll fix up the portal and go back to L’Manburg. Once he has enough emeralds to trade, he drops everything to the back of his inventory, picks a spot at the base of a hill, and starts mining. 

The repetitive motion of his arms has his shoulder protesting, but he can shove the pain down to a dull throb if he prioritizes. He mines until he hits a lava pool, the wave of heat hitting his face and clawing into his scarred skin. He grins like an idiot, even though he’s alone. He just needs a bucket of water and he can get to work. 

Coal, iron, gold. He carves a cave around the lava pool, methodically digging through strips of rock to expose any ore he can find. When he happens across diamonds, he’s properly prepared. There’s enough for a pickaxe with two chunks to spare. Temporarily satisfied, he drags himself back to the lava pool, dropping raw ore in his makeshift furnaces to smelt and giving himself a moment’s relief.

While the furnaces work, he flips open his memory book again. He traces a finger over ink lettering at the beginning, but doesn’t stop there, thumbing through the empty pages until his eyes catch on the continuation. 

His heart drops.

Doomsday. Lightning. Death. 

How could he  _ forget? _

Almost subconsciously, Ranboo draws his sword again. The gold is too light. It doesn’t hold a candle to the hefty weight of Netherite, he doubts it would even make a dent in better armor. This isn’t enough. There’s no way it’s enough. He drops it, bringing together diamonds to make something approaching practical. 

The blade glows blue against the lava light. He stares at it, watching the heat teethe at the sharp edge and drip down the blade. He dismisses the sword back to his inventory and leans back against the wall. 

He listens to the fire work its way into the iron, melting it down into usable ingots. He needs to go back, sooner rather than later. He can just avoid Dream, avoid most of L’Manberg. They won’t want him there, but he needs to intercede. What’s next? He can only remember consequences. Wilbur blows up L’Manburg. Tubbo’s cabinet doesn’t want to be like Schlatt. 

Schlatt. 

He doesn’t know  _ anything _ about Schlatt. 

Ranboo’s only comfort is that he hadn’t seen him. Maybe pushing back independence helped dodge his influence. But he can’t know that yet without going back to L’Manburg.

He pulls himself back up and empties the furnaces’ contents. More than enough iron for armor and a bucket to get to work on obsidian. He can’t linger anymore. 

. . .

Ranboo keeps his first trip through the Nether brief. He vaguely recognizes the basalt biome, so he pushes off in the opposite direction of spawn until he hits a fortress. Blazes are an easy fight, and, soon enough, he has enough rods to stockpile potions on top of the Enderchest.

He leaves the heavy, burning weight of his armor in the snow outside the portal and heads back to the village to trade for a pearl and some more books. Silk touch on the pickaxe for ease of use, sharpness on the sword, and he’s about set. 

While he grinds up the blaze rods, the blaze powder sticks to his hands, rising up his sleeve and glittering along his arms. A wave passes through him, something in his chest keens as he feels a tug back in the direction of the bay. He grits his teeth, brushes it off, and gets back to crafting. 

He combines the new eye with the obsidian he has on hand for an Enderchest. His first Enderchest here, he realizes, and something like pride bubbles up within him. 

He flips open the lid. 

Empty.

The depths of the void should be a familiarity. He normally revels in the purple dust that comes off in flecks. He usually  _ enjoys _ the vague connection between himself and further in.

Everything feels horribly, horribly real when he dips his hand into empty abyss. 

His tridents are gone, his hoes, too. His stacks of riches to fall back on in case of emergency,  _ everything. _ What else was in there? He shifts around blindly, trying to remember what else he’s lost. He can’t even manage that. 

. . .

Ranboo navigates the Nether easily. He dodges between lava deposits and basalt spikes, following the natural cliff face until he spots the floating platform with the portal from spawn. He breathes. In. Out. He can do this.

He steps out onto the stone bridge and makes his way up. He goes around the uneven cobblestone walls that half-heartedly shield him from Ghast fire. He walks into the purple veil, he comes out in the Overworld. 

The sky is clear. 

Breathe.

He follows the wooden path to L’Manberg. 

The walls are repaired, now. Wilbur must’ve had them done over the past… few days..? Week?

Ranboo realizes he doesn’t know how long it’s been. He picks up the pace. 

The land around him looks marginally more developed than it had last time he was at spawn. But no one’s milling around this close to L’Manberg. At the base of the border, the walls tower over him as a grim reminder. 

He hears laughter distantly, a voice being carried over the curve of the hills. Ranboo draws back, feeling his spine hit the wall as he puzzles out the source. Not from inside L’Manburg, but close to the shoreline: Tommy and someone he doesn’t recognize. Ranboo sidesteps around the corner of the wall to take the back entrance. 

The inside of the walls is a bit of a mess. The shell of the van has been dismantled and the depths of the explosion have been filled in with stacks of dirt. Still, the ground gives a little when he steps, not quite settled. 

“Oh! Ranboo! You’re back!” 

He turns sharply at the sound, but eases when he recognizes Tubbo’s voice. Ranboo waves weakly as he watches Tubbo duck under the gated entrance with a chest of materials at his hip. 

Ranboo looks at him, when he’s smiling with his head held high, even when just carting materials around. It’s strange, off-putting. “Do you want me to carry anything?”

Tubbo waves him off. “I’m good, big man. Where have you been?”

He can’t help but be a little thankful. They’re not talking about the messy bits, right now. Not pointing out the obvious tension that’s kept him from returning for so long. 

“I wanted to get stuff,” he pulls his sword from his inventory, tossing the grip between his hands. “So I went out far enough to hit unmined resources.”

Tubbo nods, like that’s all there is to it. Maybe it is, in some ways. 

“What are you up to?” Ranboo asks. 

“Oh, this shit is for Tommy. He just wants to build something. Him and Big Q, they want to make ‘tourist attractions,’” Tubbo laughs. “I don’t know who would want to visit here, though.”

Ranboo shakes his head. “L’Manburg is… interesting. I think you’ll get a lot of traffic.”

Tubbo blinks at him. “Is that another thing you  _ know _ know?”

“Uh,” He pointedly looks down instead of gracing that with a reply. The grass is trying to grow back over the new soil, it looks like. That’s great.

“Can we talk about it now?”

Ranboo glances around the enclosed space. “Is Wilbur here..?”

“Nah,” Tubbo says. “He’s out with Niki. Do you know Niki?”

“The name’s familiar?” It’s something distant though, abstract and opaque in his view. “I don’t…”

“So you don’t know everything, then?”

Ranboo shuts his mouth. Tubbo smiles brightly. 

“Will you tell me  _ now?” _

He shakes his head, shrugging. “I don’t know.”

Tubbo clicks his tongue unhappily, dropping the materials next to a few other chests stacked in the middle. “You know  _ something _ .”

“I know nothing. Just absolutely nothing,” Ranboo looks over the brim of the wall, checking for onlookers.

He leans forward, across the chests that come up as high as a table, grinning with satisfaction. “Mm, really? C’mon. It’s just us here right now.”

“Fundy?” Ranboo tries.

“With Niki and Wil,” he says easily.

Ranboo looks away again, watching the clouds drift across the sky. They’re gathering in heavy, gray masses. It’s going to rain soon, he imagines. 

“Ranbooooo,” Tubbo drawls out the syllable until Ranboo turns to him. “C’mon!”

“Have you seen Dream recently?” Ranboo finally asks, checking the perimeter again.

Tubbo blinks. “No, not really. I thought he was just flaking out on independence.”

Like the strike of a match, Ranboo’s tensed up all over again. So he’s waiting. Anxiety simmers under his skin, locking down his limbs and sending a shiver down his spine.

“How…” the sound catches in his throat, he has to swallow back bile and start again. “How long has it been since I left?”

“Uhm,” Tubbo looks at him, really looks at him. “You don’t know?”

“Please,” Ranboo says quietly.

Tubbo narrows his eyes in thought, kicking back to lay with his feet on the chest. “Two, maybe three weeks? It’s been a bit. I thought you just got lost.”

“I knew how to get back,” Ranboo reminds himself. “I remembered that.”

“Did you think you wouldn’t?”

“I don’t remember a lot of things, right now.”

Tubbo nods, like that makes sense. Ranboo’s just glad he’s humoring him. “Okay. What do you remember?”

Ranboo hesitates, because most of what he does is a doomed “to be.” Instead, he starts with what he doesn’t. 

“I woke up in the snow. A few days ago, I think,” he shifts, settling down in the pocket of chests across from Tubbo.

Tubbo balks. “Wait, there’s not… I don’t think there’s a tundra biome within a thousand blocks of here.”

“I know!” he brushes his hair back, tugging on the ends. 

“And you managed to get  _ back?” _

_ “I know!” _

Tubbo whistles, shaking his head as he fixes Ranboo with a look. “Okay so, like. Do you just have head trauma or something? Like a billion concussions?”

“It would hurt, wouldn’t it? Or there’d be bruises?” His head never hurts–at least not for that reason. 

Tubbo leans over, brushing aside the part of his hair to get a look at the skin underneath. Ranboo stiffens, tightening as he feels warmth stroke over his scalp. When Tubbo pulls back, he’s still frowning. “No bruises. No anything, really. Is it empty up there, big man?”

Ranboo manages a tired laugh. “Sure feels like it.”

Tubbo hums with a halfhearted smile and an expression Ranboo recognizes too well, the look in his eyes when he’s puzzling something out. He turns away to take in the sky again. The tops of the trees flutter in some breeze, but the walls buffet the worst of the wind. The air in L’Manburg is stagnant, almost bursting with predatory tension. The earth is just waiting to crack again, should Ranboo give it the opportunity. 

“I remember the morning before the revolution,” he says to fill the gap. Tubbo hums a note. “When Eret brought breakfast.”

“What after that?” Tubbo prompts. 

“Wilbur…” He blinks, once, twice, then it finally comes to him. “Wilbur read the Declaration, right?”

“Yeah! Got it in one.” 

Ranboo shuts his eyes as he prods deeper inside. “And then you left? All of you did. And…”

“And?’

“I…” The box locks down. Nothing in, nothing out. He groans. “I don’t know.”

“I mean,” Tubbo starts. “That’s progress, right? You couldn’t remember anything, now you remember that much!”

Ranboo flinches at that reminder. Right. Don’t get too comfortable, he’s built himself off lies. Tubbo doesn’t comment though, turning back up at the sky as Ranboo smooths himself back down. 

“Yeah. Progress,” he says instead.

“Do you remember what you told me before the Final Control Room?” Tubbo asks. 

He has to think for a second, sorting through the fog until he gets something concrete. “The Final Control Room is where Eret…”

“Betrayed us,” Tubbo supplies, “And right before, you told me he would.”

“Oh,” Ranboo says, because that's all he can. 

“Does that ring any bells?”

“Vaguely?” He thinks for a minute. Yeah, that sounds right. And then… “It didn’t help, did it?”

Tubbo shakes his head. “Sorry.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Ranboo says. And it is, he just can’t handle lingering on the thought for too long. His hand slips back into his inventory, the wooden hilt of his sword responding to his call. He runs his fingers over the messy woodwork, driving the pointed end of the blade into the ground. 

“I’ll listen to you,” Tubbo says. “Next time, I swear I will.” 

Ranboo rubs at his eyes, exhaustion creeping up on him. The days of hard labor have not been kind, neither on his shoulder or the rest of his body. Everything’s a mess. 

“Thanks,” he says, but it feels flat, dour and insincere. 

“Are you going to stay here?” Tubbo asks instead. 

“Uh,” Ranboo looks up at the walls. They’ll be coming down, sooner or later. So something drastic is coming, even if the details are lost on him. It’d be more secure to set up base somewhere else. Theoretically. “Do you want me to?”

“I think it’d be fun! And you wouldn’t be… alone. When you forget things.”

That’s– tempting. But he doesn’t know what he’d do on days he remembered only the  _ wrong _ things. That would be too difficult to explain. Especially on the worst days. He can’t rely on anyone but himself.

“I’ll visit,” he decides. “Well, I think I’ll try to stay nearby. I just don’t want any roots for a bit,” he tries a smile, “While I find myself.”

Tubbo smiles back. “If that’s what makes you happy.”

“Thank you,” Ranboo says, even though he isn’t sure what for, exactly. 

“Of course! Now,” he pulls himself off the chests, rooting through the jumbled mess inside, “Are you busy?”

“Not really?” Only dead time until Karl arrives, after all. 

“Great! I was thinking of making a bee farm. I have some blueprints already. Do you wanna come with me while I look for wild hives?”

“Oh.”

Tubbo stills. “Nah?”

“No, no, I’d love to,” Ranboo says. “Sounds… simple. Fun. Yeah. Yeah! I want to.”

He grins at him, and Ranboo’s chest feels just a little bit lighter. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a few days of rest for the boy. he’s had a hard week (& hard weeks to come, karl incoming)
> 
> if u wanna inject serotonin straight into my veins leave me a comment! hopefully will be getting out the next chapter soon :) see yall then!! <3

**Author's Note:**

> :)
> 
> i know it's a cardinal sin to remove seven j's from Jjjjjjjjeffreys name but i had to maintain the mood. im so sorry but it was NECESSARY. anyway, there is? more? i have a loose idea of how the timeline would go, so if people are interested i could write it? im always a bitch for a good time travel fix-it.
> 
> edit 2/01: wow! so people rly liked this :D!!! cp has kinda become my baby so i hope you like where it goes from here 
> 
> i am also a bitch for feedback! if you enjoyed please hmu w a kudos & comment :>  
> i also have a tumblr at [renvember](https://renvember.tumblr.com) if u wanna go off about mcyt bc that is my current brainrot. now, according to ao3 statistics, only a fraction of my readers are subscribed,


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